There was a tearing sound and the cloth of her habit ripped apart as the smothered point drove through it, missing its intended target. "Weep on, reprobate," cried the carpenter, a little softened. "The key's on the outside— quick! quick!" Instantly alive to this chance, Blueskin broke away. 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. Roof open —like a Noah’s Ark. Our ideal had fallen.
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