‘Do you not understand that I can trust no one—no one?’ ‘That is a pity,’ Gerald said, rising to face her. But perhaps you don't know; there was nothing in the pockets. ” When he brought home papers from Florence verifying that she had been declared dead having committed suicide the fateful day at the manor, she could barely believe Gianfrancesco’s signature at the bottom of the page. ‘Gérard—’ ‘What now?’ he asked, rife with suspicion. He had grabbed a tiny remote control and flew the thing around the table, landing it there and turning it off. She realized more and more the quality of the brink upon which she stood—the dreadful readiness with which in certain moods she might plunge, the unmitigated wrongness and recklessness of such a self-abandonment.
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