“I’m sorry,” I said. “I am making your floor wet.” I tried to unbutton my coat, but my fingers were numb with cold.

She came up to me. “You poor child,” she said, and started unbuttoning my coat for me. “Let’s put it over the bathtub to dry,” she said. “And your shoes. So the aqua alta is already upon us, yes?”

“It is. The whole of Santo Stefano is flooded.”

She removed my coat. My clothing beneath it was equally sodden. “Let us take those clothes off, too,” she said and started to pull my jumper over my head. I was feeling so weak and exhausted that I let her. I didn’t realize the danger until too late. Her hands went to the zipper on my skirt, and as she let it fall to the floor, she saw my petticoat, now tight and extended over my growing belly.

She stared. “Dio mio! What do I see? Am I correct? Is this what I think it is?” she asked, her voice harsh. She prodded at my belly with her finger. “There is a bambino inside?”

I nodded.

“I let you into my house because I thought you were a respectable woman.” She almost spat out the words. “Not a tramp. Not a woman of the streets.”

“I’m not, signora. I am a good woman, I promise you,” I said. “I made one mistake with a man that I love, who can’t marry me.”

“To do this with a married man is adultery. Adultery is a mortal sin,” she said coldly. “If you die before confession, you go straight to hell for all eternity.”

I didn’t know what to say. I was still standing there shivering. “I should take a hot bath,” I said. “Or I will catch cold.”

“You will leave this place,” she said.

“You want me to go? Now?” I stared at her, horrified.

“I am a good Catholic woman,” she said. “I would not turn you out in such weather. But I want you to leave as soon as you find another room. I cannot let my neighbours know that I have housed a person like you. What would they say? They would blame me for letting such a person into my house. I could not endure the pointed fingers, the whispers, the looks of condemnation.”

“Very well,” I said and set my chin. “I will leave, and I’m sorry to have caused you any grief. Believe me, I have plenty of grief myself. I cannot go home to my mother because I don’t want to cause her shame.”

I thought that might soften her a little, but it didn’t. “You’d better take that bath,” she said. “If you got sick, I would have to look after you.”

And she stomped into the kitchen, slamming the door behind her.