We married, and for a time we were happy. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. She prevaricated. Lucy had baked the apple and pumpkin pies, carefully molding the flour crusts and adding extra teaspoonfuls of allspice and cinnamon while no one looked. Spurling, half aside. There was nothing to be got out of the man. For freedom at least. .
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