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. “She wasn’t sane, my wife. But his glance roved, to the door through which Ruth had gone, to Enschede's drooping back. .
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