“You’re Glorious!” said Miss Miniver in tones of rapture, holding a hand in each of hers and peering up into Ann Veronica’s face. “You do look really nice. She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. 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. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing.
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