‘One of your countrymen, perhaps?’ The girl clammed up, the moon of her white face staring up at him in the darkness. Upon the steps leading to the gates of the church stood two persons whom Jack instantly recognised. I didn't think. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “I love you, you know. "Good bye!" cried Jack, as if taking leave of his mistresses, "to-morrow, at the same time. ” “You came—here!” he repeated, vaguely.
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