. ’ ‘To be sure I do,’ said Gerald swiftly. An old man with a bent back who limped in, slow and stiff, leaning heavily on a cane. God help me. This is a plot entirely abominable, and I scorn to be part of it. “Why could you not confide in us?” “Do what?” said Ann Veronica. 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. But at the word “home” she turned again. “It can’t make any difference to you, and there are not half a dozen people in Paris who could tell us apart.
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