‘Go and fetch her home,’ he said; ‘it isn’t what we thought! It’s just a practical joke of hers. “Were you ever in love, aunt?” she asked. She was vaguely happy over this arrangement which put her in the wing across the middle hall, alone. 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. The Becks as a 187 family didn’t talk or ruminate over Mike’s or Lucy’s past much. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window.
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