They certainly were just passing the Piazza Falcone each time a audience that is ragged the carriage, jeering and throwing handfuls of dung.
‘Bread, bread!’ they shouted.
Something landed in her lap, and she jerked back. It had been to see her brand new dresses spattered with filth whenever she glanced down. She brushed the dirt from her lap as Signor Colombo leant from the screen and yelled a curse.
‘They pour in through the villages,’ he said, ‘in search of the grain. They grow it, then again the landowners ship it into the populous urban centers or even the armies battling the French. Either they starve, or we do.’
‘What can be achieved?’
‘Little. There is certainly maybe not breads that is adequate all. We only have to expect a far better harvest year that is next then you will ha
