The doctor had sown a seed, carelessly. Her head snapped back as he grabbed her by the hair. “I loathe afternoon concerts, and——” She was really like her sister he thought, impressed for a moment by the soft brilliancy of her smile. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. The spinster saw herself growing warm again in the morning sunshine of youth —a flaring ember before the hearth grew cold. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced.
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