Capes spoke casually of their plans for work. Are you sure what it is you want of me?” “I want you. “No, the only person I told before tonight was my mother and father. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. Best assured of that. And guess what? I don’t sleep much, if you haven’t noticed. Perhaps it was the recollection of those happy days. The house was full of aunts, uncles, and cousins meandering about, stuffed until their seams and zippers were bursting. Something has happened to change her marvellously, either that, or she wilfully deceived me and every one else in those days as to her real self. “The conventions do not matter one little bit. She hated it, she hated the mission-house; she hated the sleek lagoon, the palms, the burning sky. “It rests with them by the nature of things. ‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers.
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