She would look up, shake her head, and then go back to her reading or crewelwork. Leonardo was to me perhaps like a father, not a lover as you think. "Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. To have spoken lightly on such a subject a few hours ago would have seemed incredible. She put a stool for him at a little distance from her own, and after he had seen the day’s work he hesitated, and then plunged into a resumption of their discussion about beauty. The kissing of the book struck her as particularly odd, and then the policemen gave their evidence in staccato jerks and stereotyped phrases. She loved the market, the horses trotting about, the bishops forced to be on the same road with old washer-women, the fools begging for a Florin or a ducat. They're apt to be surly to strangers, but it soon wears off. “Unless you have an appointment, which you haven’t,” he said, “you’ll only waste your time here. As for my past, Michelle, and Michael’s, it is a book of woeful chapters better left unread. All her life Martha had been there.
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