“I may not see the Widgetts for some little time, father,” she said. The inn was a military haunt. “Annabel at last,” he shouted. 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. “What have you been doing since our last talk? Still cutting up rabbits and probing into things? I’ve often thought of that talk of ours—often. Her interest grew as she read, a certain distaste disappeared. What was the alternative to going home? No alternative appeared in that darkness.
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