” 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. The unfortunate carpenter struggled violently, but ineffectually. "I don't understand you, gentlemen," stammered he, at length. She had always loved babies, like you! We ran away to the Barbars, back then, the land of the barbarian North. I charged the thief-taker, as was the fact, with having robbed me, by means of the lad Sheppard, whom he instigated to deed, of the very pocket-book he produced in evidence against me; but it was of no avail—I couldn't obtain a hearing. ” She grinned. “I wonder,” she began, presently, “why I love you—and love you so much?. ’ ‘That’s fortunate,’ murmured Lucilla.
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