The day was warm even under an overcast sky and Hilary, uncomfortable, shifted his weight. She made lumpish and inadequate interruptions rather than replies. But that, and that sort of thing, is just a day-dream. 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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