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. But at length, there was a click, and with a swish, the panel of painted books swung outward from the wall. ” “You are,” he answered unconsciously.
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