Part 3 She dismissed the first hotels she passed, she scarcely knew why, mainly perhaps from the mere dread of entering them, and crossed Waterloo Bridge at a leisurely pace. At first she thought he was endeavouring to rid himself of the fleas, but after a time she came to understand that the muck had healing qualities and soothed the burning scratches made by his claws. 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. He was a shy boy outwardly but she knew him better in his thoughts, in which perhaps she had already taken upon the role of lover. She entered the last room, his bedroom. Like appendicitis. “Queer letters he writes,” she said. She would never return to her father; that resolution was final.
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