“The palazzo is not ours to dispose of,” said Mrs. Shelley.
Keats blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
“We have our bedroom with the child,” she said, “and Captain Medwin in the upstairs room. That is all.”
“You didn’t think—?” Shelley asked, and brought his hand to his mouth. “To take an entire palazzo! Oh, we are not that rich.”
“No,” said Mrs. Shelley; “I should say we aren’t rich enough for many favors you do.”
Keats felt his shame turn upon her. No, he didn’t like this woman. She might have learning, she might even have a kind of genius—one heard that said of women nowadays. But she had no feeling. He had a moment’s fantasy of touching the skin under her clothes and finding it chill, like marble. She had embarrassed them into silence. Shelley was looking at the floor. Of course she was
