There was still the pity of understanding in Ruth's eyes. Her sleepless night had left her languid but not stupefied, and for an hour or so the work distracted her altogether from her troubles. 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. 47, straightening her hat and waiting for her luggage to appear. But though she lied about pretty much everything else, she didn’t lie about that. Think! You could not have done it. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. But her heart kept on sinking.
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