" The object of this discussion sat motionless. 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. We were to ransom you, then we would fake your death, play as if the kidnappers had executed you. ” “As long as you remain under my roof—” he began, and paused. A man might be without relatives, but certainly he would not be without friends, that is to say, without letters.
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