He cupped her small hands in the bowl of his large ones and reassured her in the kindest manner, saying, “You will have the finest life that Florence has to offer. With this view he struck off into a narrow street on the left, and soon entered a small alehouse, over the door of which hung the sign of the "Welsh Trumpeter. ‘Don’t let us quarrel over your Leonardo,’ he said, summoning a faint smile. She pulled him down by his lapels and arched her head readily towards his neck. “And then they are swollen up and inflamed and drunken with matter. Now for it, Thames! Make as great a row as you can to divert his attention. .
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