She had already killed more than she wanted to count, yet she had counted them still. She was alarmed at how little her husband Gianfrancesco packed for the trip, leaving behind his best scarlet and black lucco, which he wore for every business and political meeting. It must be somewhere hereabouts. Shotbolt nodded in token of acquiescence, and emitted an odd guttural sound. She found herself alone in the train asking herself what she must do next, and trying not to think of herself as cut off from home or any refuge whatever from the world she had resolved to face. Be kind to her. “She must,” said Mr.
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