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. The latter had delivered himself from one of his assailants, the attendant, Davies. I thought every one had heard about it. “I’m sorry, ma’am, to seem the cause of any disturbance, but this,” he pointed to Anna, “is my wife. Then he sensed the trap. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant.
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