The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. She had not nursed Leonardo for weeks for nothing. “Why, among other things, did I put my knuckles in his neck—deliberately to hurt him?” She tried to sound the humorous note. Where even to be a Catholic, they say, is to be looked upon with scorn and disgust. But no matter how you phrase it, the end is the same. “How would you prevent it?” she asked. In his youth he must have been a remarkably handsome man, for he is still handsome. She visualized him as in a policeman’s uniform and quite impassive. “Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. She is Bohemian to the fingertips. "I've lost my wager.
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