“We are not going the right way,” she exclaimed. “Last time I saw you,” he reminded her, “you spoke, did you not, of obtaining some employment in London. 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. Daughters were in the air that day. It was as if he could smell it on her.
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