She tucked her stick under her arm and re-read Manning’s letter. “I rue the day I ever met you, Sebastianus. Her complexion had resisted the snow-glare wonderfully; her skin had only deepened its natural warmth a little under the Alpine sun. She bussed his cheek with her small lips as he stood by the open door, and exited alone towards the sleeping house. 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.
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