He seemed to have expected them. Ireton rushed forward to open the wicket for him. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Capes saw her, felt for her, cared for her greatly, even if he did not love her. 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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