XXIII
She was back. She was curvaceous and her beauty could hurt the imagination. She spoke in Italian and was posing as a young lady from a good family, but she had remained what she was. Her deep and inviting gaze said it all.
Assunta Bonsignore was walking through the court of the old beam. She held a book in her hand and went on the timpa and toward the large olive tree, as mighty as a throne, which dominated the upper clearing of the feud. She reached it and sat down on the circular seat made of stone and concrete, built around the trunk of the Baron of Mezzocannolo’s tree, and opened the book. The fold in a central page indicated where she had stopped reading. In the distance, the sky merged with the sea and began the dance of colors approaching the sunset. She delayed her reading
