She was quite assured that she would never see him again. Don’t be frightened, dear. “Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. “Go it, miss!” cried one. He had not addressed to her even the most ordinary courtesy of fellow travellers; she doubted that he was even aware of her existence. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua.
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