He reminds me of a slave I once had in Rome with those sullen dark eyes and that wistful pout. His name was Bartolomeo di Alberti. A Hand that strove to reach his shoulder, relentless, soulless but lawful. Oh, don't worry. But her mind was ruffled, and its mirror-like surface of satisfaction was not easily restored. “There is my aunt,” she said. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm.
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