Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. And now," she added, glancing contemptuously at the woollen-draper, "I'll go to Jack Sheppard. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it. Her anger parlayed with her confusion, as she realized that the new marriage was about as optional as the first one and her hunger was growing inside her like a weed. You understand. ’ ‘But it’s my affair, Melusine.
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