The lad looked alarmed. When she arrived at the Palazzo, not a single sentry was aware of her presence. In the midst of them there was a cart with a man in it—and that man was Jack—my son Jack—they were going to hang him. “I’d have to be blown up into a thousand pieces. That terrible laughter, just before his senses had left him! Why? Here was a word that volleyed at her from all directions, numbed and bewildered her: the multiple echoes of her own first utterance of the word. “You must not think of me as one. Pardon! I wish to say, for your granddaughter, we seek succour. As pretty as its owner.
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