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. Whenever I feel particularly gregarious, I take the launch and run over to Copeley's and play poker for a couple of days. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. Gather he found stuff belonging to the real Valade, and the vicomte, as well as your own letter. It slipped out—as did that “she”.
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