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'Of that, sir, you may here convince yourself, said the mountebank, putting into his hand a sort of credential in Italian, signed by Renato di Milano, the Queen's perfumer, testifying to the skill of his compatriot Ercole Stizzito both in perfumery, cosmetics, and in the secrets of occult sciences.
Behind this grating is the Rinuccini chapel, painted in fresco by a pupil of Taddeo Gaddi, Giovanni da Milano, in whose work we may discern, in spite of the rigid convention of his master, something sincere, a lightness and grace and even perhaps a certain reliance on Nature, which the authority of Giotto had spoiled for Taddeo himself. It is the stories of the Blessed Virgin and of St.
"I tried to have it out with Rosa as we went down to the Via Milano that night. Perhaps I was unreasonable. Perhaps I showed jealousy a foolish thing to do. We parted rather cross with each other. You see, I'd never spent money like water on her. I was saving to have a home. "I had rather a hard day following. The boilers had to be gone through, and that's a job I never leave to the Second.
It casts much curious light, moreover, on the relations between paid bravi and their employers, the esteem in which professional cutthroats were held, and their connection with the police of the Italian towns. It is published in a tract concerning Lorenzino, Milano, Daelli, 1862.
The verses on the young Italian patriot and martyr run as follows: Sometimes the brave have bent the head To lick the dust that despots tread. Not so Milano; he alone Would bow to Justice on the throne. To win a crown of thorns he trod A flinty path, and rests with God. On the 20th of last October a venerable London institution changed its quarters.
"I am your fool?" he began, overbearing Emilia's most irritating "How are you?" and "Are you quite well? "I am your fool? hein? You send me to Paris! to Geneve! I go over Lago Maggiore, and aha! it is your joke, meess! I juste return. Oh capital! At Milano I wait I enquire till a letter from old Belloni, and I learn I am your fool of you all! Jomp in."
Here her voice faded into a dream again; for a very little waking wearied me, then and for weeks to come, and the word Milano brought back the church, the stained window, the priest's voice talking, and confused all these with the rumbling of the waggon. But I held my love's hand, and that was enough.
It was the narrowest escape from death that I had ever had in all my life surely the strangest and most remarkable adventure. What, I wondered, did it mean? Next morning I searched up and down Oxford Street for the Restaurant Milano, but could not find it.
That made her feel much better, and after Madame Milano had poured out the liquid jewels of her faultless voice, she felt better still.
"You know perfectly well, Miss Pat, that there isn't a prettier girl in the musical set in Artemis Lodge," she declared with a touch of wrath in her calm tones. "You are related to a famous artist, and you have Madame Milano for a friend. Miss Merton wouldn't look at you, either, if you didn't have nice clothes and good manners, besides being very well-born indeed, as she certainly knows."
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