She herself, and one other there, recognized the interposition of something akin to tragedy. 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. Pausing at each door on the landing, Jack placed his ear to the keyhole, and listened intently. He had brought her here to this place—where her freedom was curtailed even more than at the convent so that a cavalier was very much needed—and only on Monday came again. She was fatigued physically and mentally, and neither mind nor body could rest. Rowland felt himself sinking beneath the powerful grasp of his enemy. He wore a threecornered hat, a sandy-coloured scratch wig, and had a thick woollen wrapper folded round his throat.
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