Nobody can trust you. I cannot explain beyond that. She broke this promise when she told me that my mother was this Mary, and not Suzanne Valade at all. 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. ‘It is of no use to try to stop me. Here it is.
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