"You can no longer refuse to tell me the name of this youth's father, Aliva," he said. Lucy looked down, noticing that Michelle had left her shoes in the entryway. “Eight pounds,” she plunged, and added foolishly, “fifteen pounds will see me clear of everything. 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. What of that?" "Vot 'o that!" echoed Sharples, peevishly: "Everythin'.
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