“You might at least,” she murmured, “have invented a more romantic reason. On a stool eight feet high sat a small boy in a faded blue cotton, his face like that of young Buddha. Gianfrancesco was a contact of mine, I had allied myself to his father before him, and unbeknownst to anyone, to his Great-great-granduncle during the time of Crusades. But the fall was too great, and he abandoned the attempt.
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