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. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. ” Ramage looked at her, and then fell into deep reflection as the waiter came to paragraph their talk again. She hated being angry, the uselessness of it all, the frustration.
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