I've a question to ask him. I pledged my thumb that, dead or alive, I'd pay the wager if I lost; and I should like to be as good as my word. But Jonathan, fixing a terrible look upon him, cried. He was braver than her husband, who paced and cowered in the corners of the once-sunny Palazzo. 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. Without preamble, in a voice of extreme exasperation, he demanded, ‘Now what the devil’s to do? What in God’s name do you mean by sending Gerald such a ridiculous letter? Never read anything half as crazy.
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