Her eyes followed him. ‘Jacques,’ she said, turning to the lad, and holding the habit out, ‘take this for me and leave it in the passage where we have left the lantern. She interrupted. 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 you don’t know what led to our separation. She understood. “I am so very, very sorry. I’d rather starve!” For a moment the conversation hung upon that declaration. That “entirely English” comment was said just to provoke me.
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