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 tried him as a Crusader, in which guise he seemed plausible but heavy—“There IS something heavy about him; I wonder if it’s his mustache?”—and as a Hussar, which made him preposterous, and as a Black Brunswicker, which was better, and as an Arab sheik. I have been thinking—I will go to my wife again. I wish to prevent a repetition of any such errand as I presume you have come here upon this evening. He “went in” for microscopy in the unphilosophical Victorian manner as his “hobby.
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