"A fine Italian laborer you'd make, Wenny; why you would never get up early enough, and think of the food and the bunkhouses, fearful!"
"I think I'd like it for a while."
Through chinks in the great bulk of the Armory light and a racket of voices trickled out into the fog like sand out of a cart.
"I guess it's a dance," said Wenny.
The day that Ficino finished his great work—Plato was it?—Pico della Mirandola rode into Florence and the lilies were in bloom, Fanshaw was thinking, and wondering whether he would have enough money to go abroad comfortably next summer. If I could only leave Mother.
"For crissake lemme walk between yez a sec," came a breathless voice from behind them.
Fanshaw hastened his stride. His muscles were tense. A holdup.
"Walk slow like. Lemme walk between yez for crissake."
Fanshaw looked desperately up the long straight street towards the glare of Central Square. Not a policeman of course. The man walked panting between them with red sweating face stuck forward. Fanshaw dropped back a step and came up on the outside of Wenny.
"What's the trouble?" Wenny was saying.