She was dressed in a tattered black stuff gown, discoloured by various stains, and intended, it would seem, from the remnants of rusty crape with which it was here and there tricked out, to represent the garb of widowhood, and held in her arms a sleeping infant, swathed in the folds of a linsey-woolsey shawl. She launched into a stuffy Partita 89 and played it too fast. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. Kneebone said, just now. Their future would be glorious; he saw it in their eyes; he saw it in the beauty of their young heads. A boy no older than she, Gianfrancesco’s cousin, whispered what he would like to do to her when she stole into the hallways near the women’s chambers to fix herself.
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