And he thrust his head farther forward.

He looked singularly like a vulture in that moment.
"You suspect that Messer Gambara...

that Messer Gambara and Madonna...
that..." I clenched my hands together, and looked into his leering face.
"You understand me well enough," I cried, almost angrily.
He looked at me seriously now, a cold glitter in his small eyes.
"I wonder do you understand yourself ?" he asked.

"I think not.

I think not.