“How are you feeling?” She asked. Yet I fancy that we who have been poor ourselves must be the best judges of the needs of the people. The remainder of dinner was surreal and stilted. I have discovered something of her background. Gifts came from Florence: rubies and emeralds, a beautiful statue of Santa Maria for their garden grotto, a gorgeous silk tapestry of a hunting scene that alone made the price of her dowry look paltry. ‘Lord,’ he uttered, glancing about with a disparaging eye. But some day she would find a place to love: there would be rosy apples on the boughs, and there would be flurries of snow blowing into her face.
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