” She put her wrists upon his shoulders, feeling him surge with the pride of his own masculinity as she touched him. Kneebone, I came hither as your guest. 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.
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