She bought her Greyhound ticket one steamy afternoon when school let out at eleven thirty A. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. He was perched on the very edge of the leather seat of the coach, his threecornered hat twisting nervously in his hands, and from time to time he passed a tongue over dry lips. At length the task was done, and she jabbed the needle into a cushion, folded the coat, and rose. "Hush!" she said, putting her lean fingers to her lips. Her father, Bartolomeo, was a well-respected member of the Arte di Calimala: the Wool Makers Guild in Mantua.
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