The prostitute’s attack was predictable, typical. 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. He must be tied behind the carriage. ‘If Major Alderley should happen to call, you may admit him also. Light flooded the uncarpeted chamber, revealing the decayed state of the place. “What’s that for?” He said. In the genuinely dissipated face there was always a suggestion of slyness in ambush, peeping out of the wrinkles around the eyes and the lips. We all get deceived sometimes.
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