“Neither you nor I, Nigel, are made of such stuff,” she answered. It penetrated the skin; benumbed the flesh; paralysed the faculties. There was a dreadful stifled groan, and she fell heavily upon the landing. “It’s either now or never,” she said to herself. Perhaps that was the reason that they both remained standing. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis.
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