She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. They unloaded Michelle’s sleeping parents who had been propped up in the back seat, necks craned against each other. America, the land of rosy apples and snowstorms, beckoned, and she wanted to fly thitherward. “No, no,” she cried. 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. I do not say guest because that suggests friendship; and I am no friend of this Wastrel. But you have not finished surely. See what your misconduct has deprived you of —see what you might have been. Its smooth surface soothed her nerves. I have been dreaming of your body and you night after night. "Thames, this is no forgery. “Why should one pretend?” she whispered.
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