All that he had sown that afternoon with such infinite care was as nothing compared to this seed, cast without forethought. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step. ‘Who in the name of heaven is this Leonardo? And why did he kiss you?’ ‘He was an Italian soldier, and he wanted to kiss me,’ Melusine said, goaded. Making up a similar story to that which he had told the old woman, he said he wanted to purchase a hammer and a file.
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