As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. He opened it—just off-hand, and then when he saw what it was he hit at the table and sent his soup spoon flying and splashing on to the tablecloth. Then she took her sister’s hand. Her white shirt was ridiculously utilitarian, but fitted in all the right places, he smirked. " "Probably Mr.
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