And, as he quitted the room, the poor widow fell with her face upon the floor. 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. I will no longer be a burthen to those upon whom I have no claim, but compassion. Later that night, after she had cleaned herself and changed her clothes, he returned. She never forced the issue, it was their father’s job.
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