" Prudence shrugged. “My parents left for Vail on a plane this morning. It was, in a way, something of a joke to the doctor: psychology and physiognomy on an island which white folks did not visit more than three or four times a year, only then when they had to. 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. They do not come for me, to find me and bring me home. I can now give myself to God utterly; no human emotion will ever be shuttling in between. Perhaps my wife has already prepared you for what I wish to say. This is such a grand time! Such a glorious time! There never was such a time as this! Everything seems so close to fruition, so coming on and leading on! The Insurrection of Women! They spring up everywhere. ‘What the devil for?’ ‘Messenger,’ Gerald explained. He stood there, large and dark, enunciating, in his clear voice from beneath his large mustache, clear flat sentences, deliberately kindly. He was a tall man and fair, with bluish eyes that were rather protuberant, and long white hands of which he made a display. The simile started a laugh in his throat. I was forced to lay on a bed of nails for three days.
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