"Nobody composes any more, nobody paints, nobody writes—I mean, on a par with what we've just heard. Believe me, the bitterness of it has almost departed, crushed out of me together with much of the weariness and sorrow I brought with me here by the nameless glory of these lonely months. ” Anna looked at them for a moment with a pitiful attempt at a smile. 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. He bowed over her hand, venturing to drop a kiss on it’s leathery surface. His grief was so audible, that it attracted the notice of some of the bystanders, and Thames was obliged to beg him to control it. ” Ann Veronica fenced for a moment. That she possessed any sense of humour was in itself one of those human miracles which metaphysicians are always pothering over without arriving anywhere; for her previous environment had been particularly humourless.
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