"You're not out yet, you young hound," rejoined Quilt, striving ineffectually to burst open the door. 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. Possessed, at one time, of a share in the South Sea stock, he conceived himself worth twenty thousand pounds. Evidently he was gazing at the dull red roofs of the city: but was he registering what he saw? Never glance sideways at man, the old Kanaka woman had said.
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