’ ‘It’s no use you being superior,’ said Roding severely. She liked to cook even though normal food was not nourishing to her. Her husband stared at her over the candle flame. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. ‘I suppose I need not ask to which other soldier you refer. Poor little one. Bête, she told herself fiercely. 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. “What are you two whispering about?” She turned towards Martin. One’s sense of proportion, battered out of all shape in the daily life of cities, reasserts itself.
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