The storm appeared to have blown over, for they were conversing in a very amicable manner with Mr. I always told you some accident would happen. He waited for hours after dusk but she never arrived. For fully five minutes he lay quite motionless. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. He kissed her cheek. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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