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. Don’t, don’t say anything now, not anything. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. Sir Montacute had three children—two daughters and yourself.
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