It may be, it probably will all come to, nothing. Stanley,’ I said. “One has such ridiculous ideas of the wicked common people and the beautiful machinery of order that ropes them in. 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. And turning again, as if the emotions she had churned up kept her on the move, she paced back to the mantel and there stopped, staring at her own reflection in the tarnished mirror. I have never in my life been so much puzzled by any one as by your sister.
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