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. The shot had taken effect upon the waterman who rowed the chase. I wasn't taught that; I simply fell into it from contact. This child was frequently disconcerting. "Are you his ghost, then?" "No—no," answered Jack.
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