The misty caravans of which she had dreamed were become actualities. She had not chosen her life, but she was foggy on whether or not it was right to deny others the right to join her in her suffering. 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. There were cakes and sandwiches—for Ennison a sort of Elysian feast, long to be remembered.
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