" "Knock him on the head," thundered Sir Cecil, "or we shall have the watch upon us. ‘Gérard!’ ‘Yes, it’s I,’ he said, and grinned. I tried it myself, Sir. I had a sort of idea,” he went on, “that you were starting life all over again, and it seemed awfully plucky. Jackson, mean time, produced a pocket-book; and, after deliberately sharpening the point of a pencil, began to write on a blank leaf. "We're forgetting," he said. "Then it's all over with us. 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 whole affair interested him deeply. It seems that he was a sort of family friend of the Pellissiers, and it was the artist sister whom he was with. The more haste, the worse speed—better the feet slip than the tongue. She was finally dead, going to Hell. "My coat!" he repeated, his glance burning into hers.
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