Anna was afterwards astonished at her own selfpossession. Sheppard towards an appalling object in one corner. He’s the handle of life for you. 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. The man looked hard at him. It was finished by the end of that year, each character having asserted itself pronouncedly in my imagination. Anna picked up an ancient magazine, and began to turn over the pages in a leisurely way.
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