The unpleasant oily chill of fever overtook her body, and she watched in horror as Sebastian carried her to his bed on his shoulder like a sack of flour. His attitude was as different from Gianfrancesco’s as night was from day. Meat pies with sweet crust were stuffed with macaroni, steaks of pork and beef were pounded thin and grilled rare, capons had been marinated in plum wine and cinnamon, and veal sausages stewed in cream were served over fine noodles: all the dishes that he loved were present. But he afterwards acted upon the suggestion. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun.
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