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I had left Paris. “Why not?” He repeated, demanding. “He fancied that he did,” she corrected him coolly. The latter formed by far the most knavish-looking and unprepossessing portion of the assemblage. Annabel passed on with a strained nod to her sister, and Sir John’s bow was a miracle of icy displeasure. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua.
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