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. I know there’s a sort of right in your impatience at the slowness of Progress. ’ ‘Distract me? She nigh on gave me an apoplexy. ‘Aye, that she was.
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