Niece and aunt regarded each other for a moment over their pockethandkerchiefs with watery but antagonistic eyes, each far too profoundly moved to see the absurdity of the position. “I didn’t blow up the house. The wine was sweetened with cinnamon and cloves and rare edible flowers, which her father had instructed her not to drink excessively of. The eggs were all right, but nobody in this part of the world had the least conception of what the coffee bean was for. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo.
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