“Well, I have said what I had to say, stumblingly and badly, and baldly. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets. And I do not know you. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. The thin stream of blood on which her eyes were fastened with a nameless horror reached almost to her feet.
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