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. “I do not think so. Youth! You denied me even that," said Ruth, her glance now flashing to her father. Spurling: "I blush for you, Sir! To call yourself a man, and interfere with the natural course of affection! Have you no feeling for the situation of those poor disconsolate creatures, about to be bereaved of all they hold dear? Is it nothing to part with a husband to the gallows? I've lost four in the same way, and know what it is. ’ ‘I think you understand me very well. A new inexplicable madness that urged him to shrill ironically the story of his coat—to take it off and fling it at the feet of any stranger who chanced to be nigh. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. It is most uncomfortable for every one concerned. It was precious for two reasons: it was the photograph of her beautiful mother whom she could not remember, and it would identify her to the aunt in Hartford. If ever the denouement came—if ever the Hand reached him—Ruth would then understand why he had rebuffed all her tender advances. I would have liked to know. .
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