At the same time,” she added, in a suddenly altered tone, “it isn’t anything whatever to do with you, is it?” “Why not?” he answered. Clotilde pried Fritz from Lucy’s left leg where he was clinging. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. “Well, no,” she answered. They sat on a wooden bench that overlooked the less aromatic part of the lake, deeper and not as frequented by geese. ’ ‘But—’ ‘You’ll get her all over blood again. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man.
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