A few yards further off something grey, inert, was lying, a huddled-up heap of humanity twisted into a strange unnatural shape. Who could guarantee a safer existence outside Florence? That Sebastian seemed to have a weird immunity to the Pestilence was a trait that went unquestioned, unanswered. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man.
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