Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat. She liked his face; it had on it the suggestion of gentleness, of fineness. It gave him plenty of time to obsess over his random crushes, which worried her. But you must allow me to observe, my good Sir, that you're wholly in the wrong respecting my friend. They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet.
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