” He said. The gallant woollen-draper was now in his thirty-sixth year. His wife met him at the door, and into her hands he delivered his little charge. The man looked closely at Anna as she crossed the footway, and as he held her skirt from the wheel he pressed something into her hand. She danced with two others. His perception of her personal beauty deepened and quickened with each encounter. She wanted to be on with the show. Peste, but everything had become difficult. 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. Anna, why will you persist in this single-handed combat with life?” “Don’t!” she cried.
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