” 152 < 19 > THE WINDS OF NOVEMBER The Thanksgiving season brought a fierce wind that relentlessly whipped around the brick corners of the school. ‘Laisse-moi,’ she threw at him, her brief attack of sobs already ended, although the trace of tears on her cheeks bore witness to its sincerity. 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. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. He would know the truth then once and for all. Martin said “Hi” to her in the halls every day now, a sure sign of trouble. There was a great splash of blood upon it, her hand was all wet and sticky.
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