With great difficulty, Wood forced a path through the ruins. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. "Ah! Quilt Arnold, my man, is it you? By the powers! I'm glad to see you. In the meanwhile, as he talked, he scrutinized her face, ran his eyes over her careless, gracious poise, wondered hard about her. “Yes. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure. ’ A tiny giggle escaped her, and she lowered the pistol a trifle. Gin is the poor man's friend,—his sole set-off against the rich man's luxury.
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