“Touch a hair on his head and you will insure that I will never make love to you again. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. “I am afraid—I really think that one of us ought to go with you,” he said. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. He seemed resigned but cheerful, and held frequent and serious discourses with the ordinary, who felt satisfied of his sincere penitence.
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