‘We was of an age, you see, miss. Having made a hole in the wall sufficiently large to pass through, Jack first tossed the bar into the room and then crept after it. She wished that the drive would never end, but it was only three miles after all. 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. She had not made friends with any; so they still eyed her askance. I can esteem him, regard him; but, love him as he ought to be loved—that I cannot do.
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