The costume of this personage was somewhat singular, and might have passed for a masquerading habit, had not the imperturbable gravity of his demeanour forbidden any such supposition. “How crude you are, Anna!” she exclaimed with a little sigh. “I gave your name. She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. The tail-ender of this little caravan, he had been rather out of it. She could tell that he was leering at her. If she has no children, she goes on loving her husband; but he is no longer a man but a child. Kneebone," she added, drawing up her magnificent figure to its full height, and making the heavy cudgel whistle through the air, "look to yourself.
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