But from the rest—you saved me. 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. Three a week is my allowance, and, if I get short ones, four. Perhaps once it had desired some other human being intolerably.
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