Spurlock slumped in his chair, weak and empty. The title had formerly been held by Gianfrancesco’s brother, Alessia, now dead of plague. Not a word was uttered for some time, nor any sound heard except the stilled sobs of the unfortunate mother. There was already a score or more of people there, some standing up and talking together, others seated in chairs ranged along the wall. She produced a handkerchief, and with one sweep of this and a simultaneous gulp had abolished her fit of weeping.
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