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. I don’t see any good in life if it hasn’t got you in it. Life is a patchwork of impressions, of vanishing personalities. All the initial confidence in herself was gone; her courage was merely a shell to hide the lack. She has had offers innumerable; for where wealth and beauty are combined, as in her instance, suitors are seldom wanting.
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