She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. Montressor’s guests were. As a net result she had come to think of all married people much as one thinks of insects that have lost their wings, and of her sisters as new hatched creatures who had scarcely for a moment had wings. He had done it. Your laugh reminds me of—of——" "Whose, Sir?" demanded Jackson, becoming suddenly grave. She had even played in an opera by Verdi once, but had to dress as a boy to do it. She did not question or analyze the craving; she took the plunge joyously. He—he has rather a poor opinion of his contemporaries.
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