He had an objective now. 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. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. “The fellow is not such a blackguard, after all. Their conversation hung. It’s made up of things as small as the diameter of hairs and big as life and death. The rainstorm, short-lived, began to subside.
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