She stared down at them from a high window, peering down at their moonlit faces in the bed heavy with furs, the same bed where she had given birth to Gianfrancesco’s dead son. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. Drawing a pistol, and unclosing his lantern with the quickness of thought, he then burst through an open trap-door into a small loft. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. Gianfrancesco took her that night gently, for which she was glad. Confound this slavery of sex! I am a man! I will get this under if I am killed in doing it!” She scowled into the cold blacknesses about her. ‘And you, my girl, if you’d been born at all, would have been just what you think you are.
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