Naturally you shout yourself hoarse when she has finished, and feel jolly pleased with yourself. Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. “And by what right do you do anything of the sort?” “No right at all,” he admitted. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals.
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