She held on to the red handbag like some kind of Italian leather talisman. She grasped it tightly, holding on for dear life. All she had left was this. Her red handbag. She still had her pride, determination and intelligence. But not much more. The distant Italian aria played as some kind of siren call to the past. She needed to keep beauty such as this from her mind. She needed strength and power at this moment. Not Italian beauty of the highest order. Verdi can wait.