I am tired, and I want to be alone. ‘What is this proof?’ ‘I will not tell you. . She took his hand in hers. ’ Gerald reached out and took her hand, enclosing it between both his own. 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’ve never been prone to them. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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