My father thought the latter. She held it away from her with an instinctive repulsion, born of her unconquerable antipathy to the touch of strangers. He renewed his supplications to Sharples, but with no better success than heretofore; and the greater part of the night was passed by him and the poor widow, whose anxiety, if possible, exceeded his own, in the most miserable state imaginable. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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