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“Oh, my dear!” she cried, and suddenly flung herself, kneeling, into her husband’s arms. 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. Stanley professed a great solicitude to warm his hands. There were doorways to peer into, dim cluttered holes with shadowy forms moving about, potters and rug-weavers. M.
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