Gianfrancesco had been talked into the arrangement only because the drivers that had handled the job for generations were sick or dead. There were neither texts nor rubbish on the walls, but only a stirring version of Belshazzar’s feast, a steel engraving in the early Victorian manner that had some satisfactory blacks. “Lord!” she said. It was Annabel’s. “Yes. At the open door stood a young man in a rich garb with a mask on his face, who was encouraging the mob by words and gestures.
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