" "I declare I don't know what to do," said Wood, burned by conflicting emotions. 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. But his hand was withheld by Thames. Don’t think it was anything better than fever—or a bit beautiful. " Bamboo and bead tinkled and slithered behind him. Then she sat down—uninvited— and looked from one to the other curiously. Do not believe it, Madam.
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