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Updated: June 26, 2025
I like particularly the list of the young lady's qualifications and the reference to his own kindness to myself. Now, what am I to say? I see you are puzzled. Well, I will give you time." What Angioletto himself was to say is more to the purpose. I think it much to his credit that his first ascertainable emotion after the buffet of assault was one of wildest exultation at the prospect.
Bellaroba shivered a very little, and looked solemn. "Bellaroba, my lord." "Very pretty; but I must have more." "There is no more, my lord. I am wife of Angioletto." "Well, well. I know Master Angioletto, and he me. We'll have him here, I think. Hi, you!" said he, turning to an officer of his guards. "Go and fetch the chimney-sweep."
Bellaroba covered her eyes. Teofilo Calcagnini shook the tears from his. Borso sat on immovably, working his jaws. It is at this point that the conduct of Angioletto touches the sublime a position never accorded by posterity to his verse.
Borso shrugged. "Well, it is your affair not mine," he said. Then he changed his tone. "I think, however, we will come back to what is my affair as well as yours. Be so good as to tell me how you came here." "I came down the chimney," said Angioletto calmly. "I am by calling a chimney-sweep." "Upon my word," Borso said, "this is a fine story I am piecing together!
"Ah, my dear soul," he said, sighing, "could you think it of old Mosca?" Bellaroba hastened to disclaim. "No, no, no, I did not think it, Signor Capitano. But for a minute I had a little fear. Olimpia never loved Angioletto at all, and I don't think she loves me very much now." "To be plain with you, my lamb," said the Mosca, "she has no such vasty love for me.
He was such a demure boy-angel, bright-haired, long and shapely in the limb, as the painters and carvers loved to set in Madonna's court, careful about her throne, or below the dais fiddling, or strumming lutes to charm away her listlessness. Moreover, Angioletto was the name he went by, though he had been christened Dominick.
He wore his tall square cap well off his forehead, and looked what he really was a strong man tired, but not yet tired out, of kindness. The benevolence seemed inborn, seemed fighting through every seam of the pompous face. "Madonna! his generous motions work him into creases, as if he were volcanic soil," thought Angioletto.
The door of it was guarded by two stone lions, and above the porch was the figure of a buxom lady with a smile half saucy, half benevolent, to whom Angioletto doffed his cap. "They call her Donna Ferrara," he explained. "This is the Duomo. Let us go in." They dismounted; a lame boy held the mule; they entered the church. It was very large, very dark, and nearly empty.
Angioletto made her a bow; the company applauded a popular name. Olimpia turned a glance upon her Captain, which said as plainly as she could have spoken, "Finish him for your master's sake." But it had no meaning for the champion, who possibly knew more about his master than he had been minded to declare. Angioletto tapped the ground with his toe.
What do you think?" "I think as you think, Angioletto," said Bellaroba, and held him closer. "Let us go then. I know the way very well."
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