“What have you done?” 212 “It is your own fault, Lucia. Under the plumed hat, her eye kindled. My will never faltered. "Well, I'm not far from the mark. “Are you speaking to me?” she asked calmly. 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.
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