‘Still, the comtesse has them well in hand. G'night, kids. A snarl contorted his features, and he marched up to it, laying his pistol down on the marquetry table so that his hands were free to grab the picture off the wall. ‘We will converse in your own tongue,’ he said in French as he led her away. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. He was disappointed when Intermission arrived. He told some of the particulars. It was easy to discern Gianfrancesco’s mood.
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