“Well, I don’t know,” she said thoughtfully. 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. She longed to own something lasting, anything, but knew her wishes to be stupid. "But, though the storm has spared him, I will not. ” “I will think of it,” she promised. She would then hear his feet pounding up the steps and he would burst into whatever room she was sitting in and say, “There she is! My wife! Hiding her beauty from the world!” He would then run to her, grab her book or embroidery and unceremoniously toss them to the floor. She was dropped off at 2:30 at Whitefield Park, a huge extravagantly lit field in the new part of town.
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