“If I handle myself well, I might start a mania for swarthiness among Venetian dandies,” I said sardonically.
“I am not remotely entertaining,” I assured him. “But it sounds as if you are, so I will willingly get drunk with you. As long as you get a little sun on your face. I cannot have a serious conversation with a man so pale. Roderigo, my friend, you look like a prostitute.”
Nicole Galland, I, Iago













