She was delivered home by 11:30pm. A great bowl of scarlet carnations gleamed from a dark corner, set against the background of a deep brown wall. She loved him. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. Perhaps I ought not to; but this isn't a case to fiddle-faddle over. “Hainault, Celeste’s friend. After all, what did it matter?—it or anything else in the world? She was within reach of his arms, beautiful, compelling, herself as it seemed suddenly conscious of the light which was burning in his eyes.
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