I have always been lonely. The smell of laundry detergent was noticeable, the bed sheets very tightly stretched across the bed, tucked in on three sides. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s. 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. ‘That’s wicked, that is. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. She had prepared herself to meet violent protest, a recurrence of that burning glance. I have given up painting.
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