Through this, his last trial, Jack's spirits never deserted him. 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. “A claim,” he continued, “which I am quite prepared to recognize. But the current rumblings of internal discontent across the Channel were productive of unease in certain quarters. On the contrary, I am altogether satisfied. Jack Kimble stiffened, looking at his interrogator with wary anger in his face. If he died, here in this hotel, who would care? Or if she died, who would care? A queer desire blossomed in her heart: to go to him, urge him to see the folly of trying to forget. They entered a hansom and turned on to the Embankment. Almost at the same moment the door opened and Brendon entered, followed by the doctor. She could neither speak nor move nor cry out.
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