She would always be waiting upon this boy, he mused. 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. He was more like a man who had left his bed in the middle of convalescence. Run away now, please.
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