” “I believe you,” she murmured. . McClintock wrote me about you; but all I needed was the sight of your face as it was a moment gone. 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 can do it, if you will.
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