“Look here, Ann Veronica,” he began. The fellow is little better than a lunatic. “Don’t you have a wife? Where are your children?” She asked. 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. “How do you know?” “Well, it isn’t exactly a depressing state, is it?” “YOU don’t know. I'll try to fill in the gaps.
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