. ” Mr. 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. Stories … love stories: and to-morrow she would know the joy of reading them! It was almost unbelievable; it was too good to be true. Had she too been flying from something and had accepted this method of escape? But what frying-pan could be equal to this fire? All this led him back to the original circle. There is something inconglomerate about us.
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