"Shall I never banish those horrible phantoms from my couch—the father with his bleeding breast and dripping hair!—the mother with her wringing hands and looks of vengeance and reproach!—And must another be added to their number—their son! Horror!—let me be spared this new crime! And yet the gibbet—my name tarnished—my escutcheon blotted by the hangman!—No, I cannot submit to that. ” She shrugged her shoulders slightly. If you recall, Gianfrancesco’s second cousin had been ransomed by a family they had feuded with for hundreds of years. “Let me hasten,” she said, “to reassure you. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. You may enjoy your pride, your arrogance—in a coffin. ” She had forged birth certificates dating back to before anyone in the building had been born.
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