CHAPTER XI. One’s got to be a better man than one’s
father, or what is the good of successive generations? Life is rebellion, or
nothing. They were
bickering, she could tell by the way the mother threw her
fat arms into the air and paced restlessly about the tiny
clapboard house. ”
“To know things by name is one thing; to know them by seeing them and
feeling them and being them quite another. Divers plans and figures were chalked
upon the walls; and the spaces between them were filled up with an almanack for
the year; a godly ballad, adorned with a rude wood-cut, purporting to be "The
History of Chaste Susannah;" an old print of the Seven Golden Candlesticks; an
abstract of the various Acts of Parliament against drinking, swearing, and all
manner of profaneness; and a view of the interior of Doctor Daniel Burgess's
Presbyterian meeting-house in Russell Court, with portraits of the reverend
gentleman and the principal members of his flock. 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. A quarter of an hour passed. Hugging him
in the beautiful dress in front of the teenagers was
strangely soothing to her. To remove this obstacle it was necessary make an
extensive breach in the wall. The night was now profoundly dark. “Let’s go home. The gardens were
tidy and geometric, each avenue with a different purpose:
flowers for cutting, herbs, brightly colored vegetables.
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