The season was ripe for mating, she thought to herself bitterly. None of the things they said and did were altogether new to Ann Veronica, but now she got them massed and alive, instead of by glimpses or in books—alive and articulate and insistent. ‘Oh, peste. He just wants to get laid. 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. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. She still had her letter of credit. Empty, silly, coarse brutes. "Your enemy!" she returned imperfectly comprehending him. He did not spend more time with her.
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