His face was aquiline but sweet, the years had not yet taken the blush from his cheeks and his lips were similarly rubefacient. A girl—at my age—is grown-up. Even so much allusion as this to that family shadow, she felt, was an immense recognition of her ripening years. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. . “—but this cannot be. His noble Florentine roots went back a thousand years, to the days of grand Rome herself. That’s really our choice now, defy—or futility.
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