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. The Plague raced through the city and the Palazzo, consuming it like fire. The sea was no longer rolling brass; it was bluer than anything he had ever seen. I know in Paris you pinched and scraped that your sister might have the dresses and entertainments she desired.
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