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. But you belong to me—and I want you. ‘That is the man who tries to kill me, but he wounded instead my servant. I don't ask you to supply my place—for that is, perhaps, impossible. “You’d have to think how to get in between his bones. Alarmed by these prognostications of a storm, and feeling too much exhausted from his late severe treatment to proceed further on foot, Wood endeavoured to find a tavern where he might warm and otherwise refresh himself. “Sir John is not at all that sort.
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