There was a hint of tears in her voice. 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. “Please have a seat. If your wife can coach you a bit in native lingo, it will help all round. I only wish he was not a Papist and a Jacobite.
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