A check arrives in Batavia every three months. “Anna,” she moaned, “I am a jealous, ungrateful woman. I have worn it for weeks and weeks. ” Ann Veronica was stung to helpless anger. There was nothing on her face to hint of the misery that brimmed her heart this morning. 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. She looked directly at his face, his perpetually graying hair, his hawkish nose, his long cheekbones.
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