“But I—I went to Nigel Ennison for help. The area in front of the jail was completely filled. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. “What do you want to go out here for, Lucy?” He 217 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.
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