She pulled her veil down, and he knew that silence was best. Her mother informed her of the betrothal on the first painful day of her menarche, shortly after her eleventh birthday. “Shit happens, John. I have never loved you. ” He threw his head back. 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. I’d come back from the ends of the earth. She threw him his car keys. “I want to ask you a question,” he said. Ruth loved him.
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