As he passed along the main thoroughfare, he heard his own name pronounced, and found that it was a hawker, crying a penny history of his escapes. The latter no sooner beheld him than he dashed hastily into an adjoining room. An unhappy little sigh escaped her. "Enough," said Jack, recovering his composure. 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. The chair was torture.
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