"You have always been, far dearer to me than myself," replied Mrs. ‘But my poor Jacques is wounded and—’ ‘All taken care of,’ interrupted Hilary. 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. ‘Oh, we was always in there, miss,’ admitted Joan, moving closer. I don't want her hurt. He led her unerringly, pushing her down the narrow stairway that had been the servants’ access to the upper floors, and thence through a small door that led into the chapel. The next moment, however, he was picked up, and set upon his feet by a person who, having witnessed the accident, flew across the road to his assistance. Doesn’t matter a bit to me.
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