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. At least I rather hoped I might spend my time chasing smugglers, which would have afforded some excitement. The two lovers sat together, and their sole discourse turned upon Jack and his ill-fated mother. “Even Katy Pfister can’t touch you now.
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