’ Martha got up with a swish of her black habit. 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 murdered them, John. Or he would find something—a wave in her hair, a little line in the contour of her brow or neck, that made an exquisite discovery. A sea voyage under sail will be the making of him. They were filthy after the burial. Mr. He rambled in an unfortunate monotone, the result of his innate fear of public speaking.
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