Sorrow lay in the back of his mind as he withdrew, but he put it aside. ’ Disappointment flooded her. “When are you going away?” He asked. 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. Wild is incapable of such baseness.
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