Rumor in the Palazzo had it that her new doctor was a powerful archbishop from the south who conducted most of his dealings in secret. Imagination, coloured by the obscurity, peopled the air with phantoms. The blue jowl, the fat-lidded eyes—now merry, now alert, now tungsten hard—the bullet head, the pudgy fingers and the square-toed shoes were all in conformation with the doctor's olden mental picture. Again the chalky pallor spread even to her lips, her eyes became lit with the old terror. She had been warned time and time again by Sebastian that fame would mean the end of her freedom, being hounded in to the next lifetime by vampire and power seekers. But, when I look upon his innocent face, and see how like he is to his father,—when I think of that father's shameful ending, and recollect how free from guilt he once was,—at such times, Mr. She would be haunted by the visions of their mad faces in her dreams for the next hundred years. A creature of convenience, she could have cared less if her children were carried away by drunkards on the street. That was the glorious if bewildering truth.
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