On Friday Michelle found Lucy while waiting in line by the soda machine. She was glad to join in the stream of hurrying homeward workers that was now welling out of a thousand places of employment, and to imitate their driven, preoccupied haste. She stopped abruptly, and looked in a flower-shop window. To that, perhaps, a large part of its satisfyingness was due. 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. It was Annabel who spoke.
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