There were menacing possibilities; the thought of them set him a-tremble. She cried as he watched, frozen to the ground. ‘How do you do, my lord? I am Lucilla Froxfield. I warned her not to say a word, for it would mean the death of everyone in the Palazzo, including you. There, in a little tea and sweetstuff shop, she bought and consumed slowly and absent-mindedly the insufficient nourishment that is natural to her sex on such occasions. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. And it's a maxim of universal application: or, at least, of universal practice.
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