“Anna,” she cried, “you must believe me. ‘Come, Jacques, mon pauvre,’ she uttered, and reached for the lad again, hardly aware of the muted sounds of running feet and much banging and crashing beyond the secret door. 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. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. ” “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you, Lucy. ” “I promise,” he answered heartily.
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