The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague. Both arm-chairs had been moved a little so as to face each other on either side of the fender, and in the circular glow of the green-shaded lamp there lay, conspicuously waiting, a thick bundle of blue and white papers tied with pink tape. “So it’s like you’re a dead end?” He asked innocently. It was astonishing how often this picture returned: cold rosy apples and flurries of snow. Ruth stared thoughtfully at the waiting coolies. “She will take her risk,” she answered.
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