" Upon which, with an assurance that he would not do so, the attendant departed. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. 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. It did seem in so many ways exactly what Ramage said it was—the sensible thing to do. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. “Yeah, I know. You must think of this evening, John, sometimes—as a sort of atonement. Can I please go home now?” “Honey, I promise you can go soon, but you have to fill out some paperwork before you go. ” “You’ll never pay me.
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