It was an excuse, dredged up on the spur of the moment to cover a slip. 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 trust you were not altogether disgusted when I kissed you. You've got me interested and curious.
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