Michelle’s eyes were red and bloodshot. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. ‘What are the chances, do you think, of that thing being already cocked?’ ‘Probably not even loaded,’ suggested Hilary hopefully. Challenge accepted. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. He had an objective now.
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