When Gianfrancesco came to call this time, she was excited and ready. You’re tired, of course. She had begun to care about her appearance again, looking into the glass he gave her, a thing nearly priceless that was bordered in intricate golden filigree and rubies. How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? for ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me? She came upon the Song of Songs—which had been pasted down in the Enschede Bible—the burning litany of love; and from time to time she intoned some verse of tender lyric beauty. . . I thought Bess would have cried her pretty eyes out when she heard you was nabbed.
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