‘You ought to be glad someone cares enough about your wretched little neck to try and save it. 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. Annabel had spoken calmly enough and steadily, but his brain refused at first to accept the full meaning of her words. Between him and the beach stood the sum of six hundred dollars. “It’s okay. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament.
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