His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. But I don’t care; I haven’t a spark of shame. “Quite different. ” “But it may matter very much indeed,” Anna declared. She’d prefer that I read classic literature, of course, but she only reads paperback romance novels, so she can’t exactly complain. He was a young man of about two-and-twenty, who, without having anything remarkable either in dress or appearance, was yet a noticeable person, if only for the indescribable expression of cunning pervading his countenance. To surrender himself to the law, to face trial and imprisonment, was out of the question. Brown was no fool, and he understood the sudden onus of the other children to share the limelight.
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