I undid his coat, and I took it from his pocket. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. Suddenly, such a shout as has seldom smitten human ears rent the air. 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. Inexplicably there flashed into vision the Chinese wedding procession in the narrow, twisted streets of the city, that first day: the gorgeous palanquin, the tomtoms, the weird music, the ribald, jeering mob that trailed along behind. . ’ His friend held it out of the way. He was looking pale and ill.
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