"But pray tell me if her husband has escaped?" "Her husband!" echoed Jonathan scornfully. 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. As he entered the shop, a tall portly personage advanced to meet him, whom he at once recognised as the present proprietor. What you want to do is to imagine every woman a Becky Sharp and every man a Rawdon Crawley.
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