The one fault, indeed, of this school of fiction for him was that it had rather a light way with parental rights. She had not felt comfortable in his presence from the first, and with Leonardo’s precepts in mind, was loath to trust him. He was full of fabulous stories, not just tales of his own past in Rome but wonderful fables from the mysterious Orient and the ancient Greeks, old jokes and yarns that only he remembered. Jack seemed glad enough to rest, his back against the wall, and closed his eyes. ‘Your mystery lady, I mean. Give me the chisel, Blueskin.
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