Sara had scarcely heard him.
“I liked Giuseppe,” she said pensively. “But,” she added, “better when he was alive. I feel slightly irritable now when I think of him. I dislike feeling irritable. It is a prickly sensation and doesn’t suit me.”
“The will?” asked Christopher.
“Exactly. The will.”
“But,” asked Christopher, “you are not thinking of again entering the holy bonds of matrimony?”
“Nothing,” Sara assured him, “is further from my thoughts. But—if I wanted to!—Think of it, Christopher! I lose every centesimo—every single centesimo and Casa di Corleone. Fancy parting with it! Besides, there is that ridiculous letter.”
She looked at him, mock-tragedy in her eyes.
“I never heard of any letter,” said Christopher.
“Didn’t you?” she asked. “It was almost the most provoking thing Giuseppe did. It roused my curiosity—I am curious. Christopher—with one hand, and took away every possibility of my satisfying it with the other. I can quote the last phrases of the will verbatim.”
She leant back in her chair, her eyes half-closed, and spoke slowly.