Everywhere else—the law, medicine, the Stock Exchange—prejudice bars us. His job as a painter was wearing him down acutely as he aged. For a long time he remained standing before the fire, staring at the situation. “How old are you?” “Sixteen. " "You once saw a man die that way?" the manager echoed, his recent puzzlement returning full tide. My nerves were in rags. You ought to know that. Then the work is optional; they go on their own. 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.
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