I have been the vicomte’s secretary, remember. Thank goodness there’s plenty of opportunity! And we two can talk. He was a square-faced man of nearly fifty, with iron-gray hair a mobile, cleanshaven mouth and rather protuberant black eyes that now scrutinized Ann Veronica. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. Without a word, without a sign, Enschede started toward the beach, where his proa waited. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. She romanticized, imagining a life on the High Seas. He threw the doctor out of the Palazzo on his rear, sending him to the insane plague-infested streets. She wondered abjectly whether he intended to rape her before she was dead.
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