She visited the corner that had been her own little garden—her forget-me-nots and candytuft had long since been elbowed into insignificance by weeds; she visited the raspberry-canes that had sheltered that first love affair with the little boy in velvet, and the greenhouse where she had been wont to read her secret letters. “I believe that he would bore me. But that title he would not endure. ‘Coward,’ she threw at him, brandishing the sword. I quickly ingratiated myself to Gianfrancesco, playing on his insecurities, drawing from his need for more and more power. I heard rumours of it in Paris, and the place since then has been closed. Perhaps that sealed letter was a form of confession, and thus relieved him on that score. '" "'This be the verse you grave for me: Here he lies where he longed to be; Home is the sailor, home from the sea. His slightest move caused her infinite pleasure.
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