"Then, by Heaven! you are a dead man!" replied Jack, cocking a pistol, and pointing it deliberately at his head. Yet the thing hidden within her called and called. 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. Don't be afraid, man,—off with it. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. I'll cable to-night, and in a few days we'll have some news.
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