heels of her shoes clattering rapidly on the cobbled street.
Valeri stopped in the middle of the road and looked at his wife. “Do you want her?” he asked.
“I do,” replied Ana, her eyes full of lust. “I want her.”
Valeri smiled. “Then you shall have her.”
Thirty yards north on Via Rasella, Captain Quincey Harker swayed unsteadily on his feet. Beside him, Charles Ellis, the polite, bespectacled Private who had taught German in a northern grammar school until war broke out in 1914, looked on with mild disapproval as two huge men in British army uniforms held up a young man, his figure so slight it appeared as though a strong wind would blow him over, by the shoulders while he vomited enthusiastically into the gutter.
John McDonald, the enormous Scottish highlander whose hair and beard flamed red in the flickering, amber glow of the gas lamps, was booming with laughter.
“Get it out, son!” he bellowed. “Get it all out. You’ll feel better.”
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