‘I will not, if you will assure me that an imbecile is a better marriage prospect than a starving pig. “Don’t you think I ought to?” she asked, very submissively. 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. Her curiosity was insatiable, her dreams filled with happy speculation over what hair color her babies would inherit. It may be instinctive; it may be that children vaguely realize that at the end of all wedding journeys is disillusion. You're rich. His tone was kind and sympathetic. There was a long silence between them.
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