She helped herself to the remainder of the slightly congealed bacon, and reverted to the problem of getting her luggage out of the house. Ruth sighed; Spurlock stood up and drew his hand across his forehead as if awakening from a dream. 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. That was the wonder of these stories; one lived in them. Marthe has told me that the house comes to my mother, Ma—ry Re—men—ham.
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