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Updated: May 28, 2025
The master of the place was a tall Italian, lank and lean, all bone and muscle, with a Don Quixote visage, barring a certain villainous expression of the eyes, irreconcilable with the chivalrous knight-errant of distressed Dulcineas. But every man with a bad eye is not necessarily a rascallion, and Spedella, perhaps, was better than he looked.
"Hang my travels!" replied the patroon, as they leisurely engaged. "They've brought me nothing but regrets." "Feinte flanconnade well done!" murmured Spedella. "So it was not honey you brought home from your rambles? Feinte seconde and decisive tierce! It's long since I've touched a good blade. These glove-sellers and perfume-dealers "
The fencing schools flourished what memories cluster around that odd, strange master of the blade, Spedella, a melancholy enigma of a man, whose art embodied much of the finest shading and phrasing peculiar to himself; from whom even many of Bonaparte's discarded veterans were not above acquiring new technique and temperament!
Mauville," he exclaimed, extending a bony hand that had fingers like the grip of death. "What good fortune brought you here?" "An ill wind, Spedella, rather!" "It's like a breath of the old days to see you; the old days before you began your wanderings!" "Get the foils, Spedella; I'll have a bout with the master. Gad, you're as ill-looking as ever! It's some time since I've touched a foil.
Cluck; cluck, my game cock! Intemperance has befogged your judgment; high-living has dimmed your " "You have it!" laughed the land baron. The button of his foil touched the old bravo's breast; the steel was bent like a bow. Spedella forgot his English and swore in soft and liquid Italian.
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