I have read that authors are very selfish and self-centred. You would not have believed me, I know well. 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 paper must be signed, or I take my departure. ‘Tie a horse behind the carriage?’ he echoed incredulously. The buboes broke and God took Lucia's mother. ’ ‘Sit down, Hilary,’ ordered Lucilla, and to Gerald’s amusement, her betrothed did so, perching on the desk close by and staring fixedly at the major. She lifted the sheet and gestured for him to join her.
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