His first wife. She realized that with a pang of disgust and horror. ‘Do not think—’ he panted, ‘that I am finished—with you, mademoiselle. It would be downright cruel to disillusion her. ‘But I’ve known that for years. The unequal battle went on. My death, probably. I wish nothing at all from them. 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 not a worthy tome in sight. ’ ‘Eh bien, it is your fault entirely in this case.
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