She cried for hours but would not scream as her mother was packed into a marble coffin. Beyond was an avenue of tall poplars that rose like columns, disappearing into undulating hills that were black with sleeping houses and fertile soil. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. ’ ‘So I see. She too at once developed an anxious interest in the street outside.
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