” She looked at him with uplifted eyebrows—a look of whimsical incredulity. 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. ” And she pressed her lips together in white resolution and nodded, and she was manifestly full of that same passion for conflict and selfsacrifice that has given the world martyrs since the beginning of things. It is a most wonderful piece of good fortune, as I suppose you will be prepared to admit. The assassination, as you call it, was, obviously, the vengeance of a kinsman of the injured lady, who no doubt was of good family, upon her seducer. And mind you don't arouse his suspicions.
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