Tell Lucy about the time you were nine years old and blew up the house, John. We’ll have some buttered toast. But you have, haven’t you?’ He tutted again. ” “No shit. Their momentary absence seemed to have worked wonders; for now the most perfect understanding appeared to subsist between them. 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. ‘I hope I do not understand you.
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