One who—who—tres. Lucy thought of a song that she had not been able to get out of her head since the Fifties. “Hand me the Jergens lotion, will you? How’d it go with John?” She asked. How I envied Gianfrancesco on his wedding night, how I writhed in agony just thinking 171 about his intimacies with you! Then you became pregnant, and there he was, posturing and gloating like the rest of the family, my divinations of a boy in your womb pronounced. ‘But Gérard—if you mean the fellow Alderley who was making eyes at Yolande—is not here. In fact, it had been anciently the right hand postern under the gate leading towards the city. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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