She imagined descending the stairs, hearing Mike’s uproarious laughter as she peeked around a vacant corner with a lump in her throat. The air was crisp and dry. It’s obvious you have eyes for someone else. He became ugly and monstrous, dunning her, threatening her, assailing her. Wood then took to his heels, and never once looked behind him till he reached his own dwelling in Wych Street. She rapped on Michelle’s door loudly. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. 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. The law would accord her all her previous rights: she would return to the exact status out of which in his madness he had taken her. .
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