( There is a sudden, vast and endless stillness to her. As if she stands at the edge of a cliff and, gazing down, surrenders her breath before her body. )

A cost. And my handsome doctor, he asks of Macaluso. If we were... sick, one after the other. You suspect... what, precisely? That grandfather and Macaluso contrived to... pass me his sickness? So he might survive, and I might take ill, is that what you think? What you imply?