‘Melusine, if you don’t let go my hand—’ He broke off as she dragged a pocket handkerchief from her sleeve. This formality irked her: she wanted to play a little, romp. Decidedly this was imbecile. Something unpardonable is laid to my charge. 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 was struck by a change in his appearance. You’ve got to take what you can get.
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