CHAPTER VII
The astonishing collapse of Spurlock created a tableau of short duration. No
one had lived here since old man Remenham had died some eighteen months
ago, for the heir, so it was rumoured, was a relative with property of his own. 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. Before many minutes elapsed, he had picked a large hole in the plaster,
which showered down in a cloud of dust; and breaking off several laths, caught
hold of a beam, by which he held with one hand, until with the other he
succeeded, not without some difficulty, in forcing out one of the tiles. “Do you like my dress?”
“Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more
beautiful than any dress. ”
A sudden sense of the gravity of this thing came home to Anna.
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