But I will never—never return. “You—appear to know my name, sir,” Sir John said. That poor child, trying to escape, and not knowing how. 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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