where men fiddle while women burn? She embarked in a gondola, tossed a ring into the Grand Canal, and announced, Now, I am a dogaressa!
Campaspe again was not listening. Her nerves were playing her odd tricks. She had the impression of a presence in the room, a presence that was affecting her emotions in some disturbing way. Like a lone hunter, in the depths of the jungle, suddenly instinctively conscious that somewhere nearby, behind the screen of green that obstructs his vision, a man-eating tiger lies crouched for a spring, she awaited, not without trepidation, the moment when the unknown force should choose to become visible. Waited, icy cold, and alone. . . . Presently, she saw the other. Straight across the room, in uniform, like the rest of the servants, bearing a tray, he was moving, as yet unaware, directly towards her. Unaware, and yet uneasy. Silver, silver, the faint tinkling of bells, and a sickening, unfamiliar odour, an overpowering scent. Dizzy, she closed her eyes, and took two uncertain steps. Forcing herself, with every particle of will at her command to open them again, she stared ahead of her. And now, at last, he too saw her, and the secret she read in his eyes provided her with a new torment. Before, however, she was able to move forward or to speak, Gunnar averted his gaze, pivoted on his heel, and hurled the laden platter through a window, shattering the pane from sash to
