"That's not an easy question to answer," rejoined Blueskin. ” He complained, handing it, case and all, to Lucy. She came to spend hours with the bastard children that the women brought, dressing and feeding the tiny ones, inventing games for the older ones. Lucy arranged her hair as Michelle had taught her instead of combing it out. 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 dizziness made the trees sickening, the smell of Michelle’s perfume soapy and revolting.
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