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He'd have enough to do to protect himself, without attending to you. Why do you not go away?’ ‘Yes, do go away,’ begged Gerald. Do you know whoso portrait this is?" "I do not," replied Thames, repressing his tears, "but I believe it to be the portrait of my father. ” He handed her the phone reluctantly, barely masking his mild disgust. Peg after peg had gone down his blistered throat, but never had a smile touched his lips, never had his gaze roved inquisitively. Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. 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. “Never mind, old chap,” he declared.
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