“Then let me be the judge of what is best,” she answered. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague. It was an easy one to smell early on, Sebastian had taught her: anything reproductive. There were some deepseated fears of the rot spreading to England, if the simmering discontent of the peasantry of France were to erupt any further. What reassured her, however, more than anything else, was the shape of the mouth: it was warmly turned. He had not been successful as the world counted success; the fat bank-account, the filled waiting room of which he had once dreamed, had never materialized except in the smoke of his evening pipe.
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