“Won’t you tell me why you have come to England?” she said. “You could tell me but you’d have to kill me?” He asked with a sardonic grin on his face. He looked half at her and half at the sky. He thought for a moment, and went on: “Love is something that has to be taken care of. 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. ’ ‘Why must you?’ asked Gerald calmly.
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