The Master of Verona is a self-contradiction of pacing. The prose and the scenes flow quickly, with vibrant characters, flashy action scenes, and a theatrical sense of drama. A single page passes more quickly than one would expect from the amount of text on it. However, the work itself is still a tome. Each scene was quick, but it felt like there were too many scenes, specifically in the second third of the book. In general I got something vaguely Shakespearean from the story, from the setting to the staging sensibilities to the this-is-how-long-already?