One or two of the tables were occupied by groups of fat frowzy women in flat caps, with rings on their thumbs, and baskets by their sides; and no one who had listened for a single moment to their coarse language and violent abuse of each other, would require to be told they were fish-wives from Billingsgate. It was easy to recognize, the one thing that had stayed the same over the years. She cursed herself for a fool. They were wed in Florence, in the grandest cathedral she had ever seen, the Santa Maria del Fiore. It seemed older than Rome, and the stone covering it gave resistance. He looked exactly as she had dreamed him, handsome, rigidly dressed in a black suit, his hair still half gray, his eyes green and flashing like a cat’s.
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