" "My death will lie at your door," remarked Jackson to the carpenter. He held her hand in his, cupped together like a pair of shells for the rest of the hour. They bickered frequently now as Gianfrancesco protested the prices of things like funeral candles and poultices to comfort the dying. She made a quick movement, and the hand fell away. He reappeared in street clothes, his cropped hair not even damp from the shower, fresh-faced and sweetsmelling. " "Don't anger him, my dear son," implored the poor widow, with a look of anguish at Jack. For her it was sufficient to know that somebody wanted her, that never again would she be alone, that always this boy with the dreams would be depending upon her.
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