There was a concerted gasp of shock from both the black-garbed lad and the coachman. He had no ideas about daughters. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. Her parents left two weeks later, the weather still fine. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. 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. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. Only sat, staring at him, a puzzled look in her face. “Your name, I believe, is——” “Pellissier,” Anna answered.
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