She wondered if he was already tired of her, if he would rudely push her away as one would a prostitute. Mr. It is useless to contend with him, even with right on your side. She might even forgive him. Was she a fool to wish a person of a disposition altogether not pleasing to marry her? Was it not true that he made a game with her very often? Had he not been extremely interfering from the beginning? And had he not kissed her, just when— Her thoughts skidded to a stop. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti.
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