Madame shrugged. There were no doors in the bungalow; instead, there were curtains of strung bead and bamboo, always tinkling mysteriously. 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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