He never finished his sentence. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. “Forgive me, madam,” he said stiffly, “but in such a case as this it is better that nothing in the room should be disturbed until the arrival of the police. Drink this!” He poured out a glass of wine with a firm hand, and held it to her lips. He blushed furiously; it was not what he had expected to hear. She untucked his starched shirt, running her hands along his smooth torso and underneath his arms. He still watched her and questioned her.
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