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. His head turned sideways towards the noise, his brows scowling. ‘Oh my God,’ uttered Gerald in some dismay. I can’t help it. The birds were singing blithely amid the trees,—the lowing of the cows resounded from the yard,—a delicious perfume from the garden was wafted through the open window,—at a distance, the church-bells of Willesden were heard tolling for evening service. Never was there another girl like this one. ‘Sindlesham? But Gerald has gone out of town to visit that very person. But then the features changed.
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