“Don’t worry, Julian. “My word holds,” she said. 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. At this moment, the landlord of the Crown, a jovial-looking stout personage, with a white apron round his waist, issued from the house, bearing a large wooden bowl filled with ale, which he offered to Jack, who instantly rose to receive it. ‘I doubt it. Running his hand hastily over it, he was startled to find it one complicated mass of bolts and bars. ‘But you are idiot. She moved then, fast, taking refuge behind a Chinese screen that was set beside the four-poster at the back of the room.
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