She watched them sleep for what seemed hours from the high window until her body grew colder than the stone sill she perched upon. The fire—if there was any in him—never made headway against this insistant demand to know the significance of these manifold inward agitations. org. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “My dear boy,” she exclaimed. She seemed to be making some sort of inventory.
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