She had fled back to Florence quite intent on slitting the new bride’s throat. She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. I forget. His perseverance was amply rewarded. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. " "Do what you please with him," muttered Trenchard to Wild.
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