It was now a quarter past twelve. 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. These were so outside her experience that she found it possible to thrust them almost out of sight by saying they would be “all right” in confident tones to herself. Annabel seated herself in an easy chair and determined to wait for her sister’s return. "His disguise was capital; but I detected it in a moment. Just me and another girl named Krista who turned eighteen and left right about when I got there. ‘Ah, no,’ Gerald uttered at once, lowering his voice and infusing it with all the promise he could command. The comparisons upon which she could draw were few and confusingly new, mixed with reality and the loose artistic conceptions of heroes in fiction. She had come to despise those who were fertile out of pure jealousy, but could not admit it to herself.
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