"That man should have been an Italian bravo," murmured the knight, sinking into a chair: "he has neither fear nor compunction. Mike and Shari sat at the kitchen table eating potato chips. The brown house, almost exactly the same as the Beck’s, turned black as pitch in the gloom. It remains a bizarre idea to me that Lucy Alberti could ever become so detailed or so real, but I’m certainly glad to have made her acquaintance. Flesh and blood, vivid, alluring; she was no longer the symbol, therefore she had become, as in the twinkling of an eye, an utter stranger. On this side of the canal she has no place to go. Still, his robust frame enabled him to hold out. "Answer me one question first?" he said; "I half suspect you're Jack Sheppard. I knew where I would go next: Florence.
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