My father thought the latter. But it strikes me there's a nigger in the woodpile somewhere, as you Yankees say. I had not the time to formulate the decoctions that would have saved him— they take weeks to create and must come from your own blood! You were perilously close to death, and had I not watched you constantly for the week you were unconscious they would have buried you alive! Gianfrancesco was ready to give up after two days, 172 ready to throw you in the plague cart! Of course he had no use for you after bearing witness to the loss of your womanly organs. They are arbitrary and unjust and dogmatic and brutish and lustful. He was sipping a glass of cold gin and water, and smoking a short black pipe. ‘You’re speaking the truth. ‘Ha! It’s you, is it?’ He threw a glance at his two juniors. I know who hits hardest.
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