‘She knows what she’s up against. Thunder rumbled behind the manicured hills. She was fiercely and bitterly jealous. And experience was slow in coming. ‘What do you mean?’ ‘You have papers of identity, for the Mother Abbess told me so. 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. She was quite oblivious to the sensation she had created.
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