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“They are coming past our table. It was a haunted place. Wood, whose loss I shall ever deplore. Very few survived her trials. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. “When we go indoors I will show you the offers I have refused,” she answered. As they left Florence, dying men and women still scrabbled through the streets, screams emanating from the rows of houses, beggars running up to the horses, sick children in their arms, their eyes bleeding, their noses running, begging to join them in their journey out. “Please forgive me. “Don’t you know?” “Oh! I know—” “Well—” Her face was an unaccustomed pink. This was not the sort of confession which he had been expecting.
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