"You have behaved like a man of honour, Sir Rowland," said Wild, after he had twice told over the money. 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. I didn’t understand. “That’s it,” she said. She gurgled. She isn't used to cities. But this is not sufficient.
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