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 a little pause between them, full for Ann Veronica of rapid elusive suspicions and intimations. I won't have a beachcomber on the island. He trembled, not from any superstitious dread, but from an undefined sense of approaching danger. I want to get away. She swallowed hard.
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