With a well-simulated unconcern and a heightened color she finished her breakfast. Her features were still slightly marked by the disorder alluded to in the description of her as a child,—but that was the only drawback to her beauty. They all left the room. 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. Not a word was uttered by the assemblage; but a hush of expectation reigned throughout.
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