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 felt a hysterical desire to strike him, to burst out crying, to blurt out the whole miserable truth. My late husband, I mean. . She was young and bright, little to no make-up except for lip-gloss, long, straight, glossy reddish blonde hair slightly past her shoulders. And you promised to tell me. .
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