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. “Fearful old fogey! I can’t imagine any sister of yours putting up with him for a moment. ‘No doubt accompanied by the latest crim con tales. Your father has forbidden you to go!’” “Well?” “She said, ‘I hate being horrid to you and father, but I feel it my duty to go to that ball!’” “Felt it her duty!” “‘Very well,’ I said, ‘then I wash my hands of the whole business. ‘Move, you. ToC Nearly nine years after the events last recorded, and about the middle of May, 1724, a young man of remarkably prepossessing appearance took his way, one afternoon, along Wych Street; and, from the curiosity with which he regarded the houses on the left of the road, seemed to be in search of some particular habitation. He laughed once or twice at himself as he paced backwards and forwards. He will have it that I’ve taken leave of my senses. "Well, good night, Mr. Every afternoon, from now on, I will teach you a little about life—I mean the worldly points of view you're likely to meet.
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