Mrs. But it is that I have a very bad temper, you understand. Nevertheless, she was still fighting. “I don’t know, John. ” She whispered. 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. Only an undermaid I was then.
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