When he had finishing feeding and burping, Isobella asked her, “Would you like to hold him?” Lucia nodded yes eagerly. “I am very glad to hear you say it,” he repeated, and refrained from further inquiry. "Unless you have eaten a Syrian orange," he was always saying, "you have only a rudimentary idea of what an orange is. She had but to choose. She could not help thinking of Capes. 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 wind blew in fitful gusts, and scattered the yellow leaves from the elms and horse-chestnuts. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. An ill-lined purse is a poor recompense for the risk I have run.
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