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The thought made her exquisitely happy. 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. What he there noticed occasioned a marked change in his demeanour. If the Wastrel had not turned the instant he did, the ball would have missed him; as it was he turned directly into its path. “Yes,” he said, “I shall come. He looked at Annabel, whose face was buried in her hands— he looked back at Anna, who was regarding him with an easy composure which secretly irritated him. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. I suppose it depends on her own state of mind.
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