"No—Sheppard?" rejoined Wild. To his consternation, she was holding an unwieldy, ugly-looking pistol, all wood and tarnished steel, with both hands about the butt. ” A spot of colour flared in Anna’s cheek as she glanced towards the speaker. 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. '" "What is that?" she asked. You are my prisoner, murderer.
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