"No matter," replied Sheppard. “That young man was giving a luncheon party to a dozen friends at the Café de Paris to-day. There were groves of cultivated guava, orange, lemon, and pomegranate. I'll wait for you down here. Cahill gave me a hall pass. 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. He seemed so clean anyway, his fair 215 skin, his light brown hair, there almost seemed to be no point. Lucy savored the normalcy of the scene. " "Who cares if we do?" retorted Sheppard, with a look of defiance.
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