The conflict was of short duration; for Shotbolt was no match for his athletic antagonist. 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. Wood at Dollis Hill, was assaulted and half-killed by a party of ruffians, headed, he swore, by Mr. Sheila grabbed the gun and laughed hysterically, brandishing the weapon and baying like a bear. He lived on the seventh floor behind a winding set of hallways that towered over her in their grayness.
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