And for many years, that was the way it was. If he keeps his word, I'll keep mine. 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. There was the same airy grace of movement, the same deep brown hair and alabaster skin. Run along while I rig up and get the part in my hair straight.
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