"Your uncle, Sir Rowland?" "It is no idle boasting," replied the other. She met his eyes for a moment, and could not interpret their expression. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Wood, popping her head through the window. And then I'll pay off old scores. She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat.
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