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Updated: May 26, 2025
He was too unwieldy, too fond of life, too indulgent towards himself and others to experience at mention of Don Giustino's name anything but a certain feeling of discomfort a feeling which his acute intelligence, embedded under those rolls of fat, enabled him to formulate with warmth and precision. "I know quite well," he said to Torquemada, "that he calls himself a good son of the Church.
"Heard the news? Don Giustino's coming over." "The old assassin. What of it?" "Good business! One in the eye for Mali what's his name. There'll be the hell of a row. We ought to be grateful to Muhlen for this amusement." "Damned if we ought. Unless he got himself killed on purpose to amuse us. And even then it would have amused me more if he had paid me back those seventeen francs."
Signor Malipizzo had swooned away. He had to be carried out of Court. It mattered little, for the proceedings were at an end save for a few formalities. The case was won. People were rather annoyed at being deprived of one of Don Giustino's far-famed perorations. It could not be helped. Better luck next time. Then they asked themselves why the judge had fainted.
That was Don Giustino's cheerful way with people who annoyed him. Those infernal clericals; their sanguinary, out-of-date methods! Papacy and Camorra interconvertible terms who could plumb their depths? The Masons were different. They fought for the enlightenment of a people deluded by priestly snares and intimidated by the threats of assassins. Don Giustino. Holy Mother of God!
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