“My father’s sisters used once to live in the old manor house. Hitherto, no visiters had been permitted to see him. She leaned forward, her chin in her palms, her elbows on her knees, and she set her gaze upon his face and kept it there in dreamy contemplation. I have discovered something of her background. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. I’ve always had a sneaking desire for the writing-trade. "Mother, I come to you.
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