I was his wife. Father had traveled to Florence to the Mercato Nuovo, staying away for a half year at a time paying court to the house of the silk merchant Iovelli, which was patronized by none other than the Medicis. They took their places at a distant table. With a cry of triumph, he rose, the sword hilt grasped in his fingers, the point swishing up towards her. “Sometimes it is not bad. "Done!" cried Shotbolt. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. Eh? Banging against the old rollers—that'll put some life into us both.
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