It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. He would stare at her intensely when he was certain his parents were not looking in his direction. 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. . The chromatic fiction with which he relieved his mind glanced but slightly at this aspect of life, and never with any quality of guidance. What a fool I was to separate the two in my mind.
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