If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. I owe his mother one, and will repay the debt, with interest, to her son. She recognized the face but could not quite place it. She didn’t trust Gianfrancesco, you know, she called him a ‘bad husband’. Let’s go up to my room. She fell into a deep delirium, whispering hoarsely to her dead mother, cursing God in Heaven, cursing her doctor, cursing herself as apparitions of devils and demons pulled at her with yellow ochre hands.
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