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. For she knew that men married to get something. She never had been much of a looker, but she had stopped worrying about such things long ago. "Perhaps you don't know that this Darrell so contrived matters, that your child should be mistaken for his own; by which means it had a narrow escape from a tight cravat, I can assure you. His eyes on Melusine, he uncocked the pistol, and then reached out to the portrait, grasping it by one edge.
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