I never intended it to be anything but a short story, for I had never completed even the shortest of stories unless forced to in grammar school. She heard Gianfrancesco arguing with Sebastianus. The ribald demons that infested the back of Ann Veronica’s mind urged various facetious interrogations upon her, as, for example, where the witness had acquired his prose style. Whence she came,—who she was,—and what she wanted,—were questions which naturally suggested themselves to Blueskin, and he was about to seek for some explanation, when his curiosity was checked by a gesture of silence from the lady.
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