His face was much handsomer than Gianfrancesco’s, his lips thinner, his brow much more noble and wise. His anger gave way to grim humour and he thrust towards them, leaning heavily on his cane. “Of course,” she said diffidently, “this is a boarding-house, although we never take in promiscuous travellers. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. Her education was remarkable in that it was overdeveloped here and underdeveloped there: the woman of thirty and the child of ten were always getting in each other's way.
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