Then her head disappeared suddenly in her hands, and her shoulders shook violently. How dreary it all looks. Her brother Roddy, who was in the motor line, came to expostulate; her sister Alice wrote. Then she sat watching the play, sometimes offering a helpful suggestion, sometimes letting her attention wander to the smoothly shining arms she had folded across her knees just below the edge of the table. This is a case either of suicide or murder. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. She would often steal away to tryst with him in the orchard, even now she felt her loins grow warm with the memory of his ardor. With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. Will you please—Not now, or I must go.
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