Valade, who was standing by her chair, glancing around the packed pink-papered saloon with a heavy frown on his face, was a thickset man of coarse, reddened feature, with a discontented air. Gianfrancesco found himself to be his family’s sole remaining male heir. The colour slowly left her cheeks, the lines of her mouth hardened. He flipped the television off. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it. She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. See paragraph 1.
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