“Do you think it is fair of you to persecute me just now?” “It is not persecution, Anna,” he answered gently. 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. Such was the terror inspired by Wild's vindictive character, that few durst face him who had given him cause for displeasure. There was no one to be seen. ‘Ah, there is the little menace itself,’ he drawled, recovering some of his own sangfroid. You make yourself charming for help. For a pity, she has chosen to remain, and it has been her death. Go back at once, please. . Kentish family.
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