The young male, as she had actually seen him, had been of the sailor type, hard-bitten, primordial, ruthless. Then a bit of colour flowed into his sunken white cheeks. 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. You have taken even my knife.
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