. 4. 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. And for twelve years he has been so; until his long security, well-nigh obliterating remembrance of the deed, has bred almost a sense of innocence within his breast. He would be off her case just as soon as his fever for her broke and he found a lover, and she imagined he must have plenty of girls from ritzy families lining up to choose from. “How’d you know it was me?” He looked conspiratorially into the room for hidden informants.
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