They were intelligent, sophisticated women, but superstition ran deep in their blood. All, with the exception of Louisa Freccia and the ever-unruffled Gilda d’Avencorta, were definitely uneasy. Beatrice also seemed bothered. She appeared tense and her face was flushed. Seizing her never-empty glass, she swallowed its contents thirstily, in two or three gulps as though attacked by fever, and pushed away her plate with a trembling hand. I raised my voice and addressed my guests. “Our dear friend Luciana Salustri is perfectly correct, ladies. I noticed the discrepancy in our number the moment I learned the Respetti sisters could not attend, but I knew that you are all modern women who are not constrained by silly superstitions. Therefore I did not mention it earlier. The idea that misfortune might befall one of us because we are thirteen is ludicrous. As you are aware, the belief stems from the story of the Last Supper, where it was once believed that like Judas Iscariot, one out of the thirteen at the table must be a traitor and doomed to die.
