He seemed to deliberate. ” “He was probably right,” she declared. She opened her mouth and inhaled water. ‘Oh, you are making a game with me. Plote was sleeping or deaf. The contest, however, though desperate, was brief. ‘Idiot!’ ‘Enough, now! Softly, you little termagant,’ he ordered, seizing her wrists to hold her off. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. Katy’s face was vapid and undistinguishable from a crowd, but pretty in an abstract sense, like the face of a baby doll.
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