“Through there,” he said, and pointed with the pamphlet he was carrying. 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 looked like a French boy soldier she had once glimpsed marching towards his death in one of the battles they would later call the Hundred Years War. The evening breeze came; the bamboo shades on the veranda clicked and rasped; the loose edges of the manuscript curled. Then to the Dean's Head, in St. "What do you want with me?" "A word in private," replied the other.
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