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. That could signify nothing except that the doctor had a friend down there somewhere, on an island in one of those archipelagoes. I am not French in the least. I am afraid because I love you, so that the mere thought of failure hurts. “But perhaps I want to confess them.
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