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. “What has he done? “What shall I do. She silently willed him to stop his pacing, to calm down. Once a sick sailor drew three pictures for me and set down every stay and brace and sail—square-rigger, schooner, and sloop.
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