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. Only three days. "Woman, your wits are fled!" And so it seemed; for all the answer she could make was to murmur distractedly, "I can't find the key. ” “Shirts?” “Shirts at one—and—something a dozen. These thoughts, however, came to a broken end. There’d only be endless rows if I was at home.
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