The period of repression was over. Gerald lost his head. She gathered stones to place upon the makeshift grave. One peculiarity she did not fail to notice. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. It seemed to him that a sort of mist had risen up between them. If he had eaten food, this wouldn't have happened. A sacrifice. As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins.
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