The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. " "My poor son!" groaned the widow, sinking backwards. 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. ‘Not care? For this he must be an Englishman tout à fait sympathique, and— and I know only. And yet, when you offered to help, it was what is to come that I had in mind. It is repulsive.
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