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. ‘Léonore, then?’ She shook her head animatedly, enjoying his attention. ‘From the convent, where else?’ ‘It does not strike me that you can possibly have been in a convent. ” “It seems so—so unworthy”—she picked among her phrases “of the noble love you give—” She stopped, through the difficulty she found in expressing herself. It became suddenly glaringly apparent to her that it was impossible to return fifteen pounds or any sum less than twenty pounds to Ramage—absolutely impossible. “Will you help me?” he asked. I’ve got to have you, and by God I will. “You needn’t be worried,” she said quietly. The young man's imagination suddenly pictured the man as a rock, loosed from its ancient bed, crumbling as it fell. Her father, her own father! She remembered now a verse from the Psalms her father had always been quoting; but now she recited it with perfect understanding. Yet she could not bring herself to hate the girl, or even Gianfrancesco, the one who would have sent her to her death more than once. They traveled to distant places, had an apartment in Constantinople and a villa in Paris. "The devil you have!" thundered a voice from behind, that filled the apprentice with dismay.
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