She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. "The shoulder-clappers!" added a lady, who, in her anxiety to join the party, had unintentionally substituted her husband's nether habiliments for her own petticoats. Both advanced towards it, when, by the light of the lantern, Wood beheld, in the countenance of the stranger, the well-remembered and stern features of Rowland. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. What a pity! But why? There was no way over this puzzle, nor under it, nor around it: that men should drink, knowing the inevitable payment. But Sheppard answered for him. ’ ‘I have found Mary Remenham’s daughter,’ he repeated. . Much too formal for a cosy chat between old friends. "You won't betray him. It is not, my dear Veronica, that I think there is any harm in you; there is not. .
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