. She hissed in a breath and his eyes met hers. 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 seemed to be making some sort of inventory. Her aunt had summoned up an altogether too vivid picture of her father as the masterful man, overbearing, emphatic, sentimental, noisy, aimless. He saw Enschede, making the empty sea, alone, alone, forever alone. They happen to a man.
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