‘Lay him down on a sofa,’ Melusine said, coming out behind them and moving towards the antechamber. Since then he has persistently annoyed me. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. Their conversation was conducted in the flash language, and, though unintelligible to Wood, was easily comprehended by this companion, who learnt, to her dismay, that the wounded man had received his hurt from her son, whose courage and dexterity formed the present subject of their discourse. 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. “Can you come out tonight?” “Um, sure, I guess. I—I hurt myself. I can’t help you a cent.
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