But a middle-aged man like Ramage ought to know better than to draw out a girl, the daughter of a friend and neighbor. 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. No, let us dine here, and then go and have our coffee on the boulevards. “Where were you?” He inquired, rubbing her shoulders. Just an idea of mine. He ate of the bread with great appetite, and having drunk as much as he chose of the water, poured the rest on the floor. “Then we go on to this place, the Oeschinensee.
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