"Spare me!" he groaned, looking upwards. “I should imagine,” he said, shaking out a copy of The Times, “that it is your brain which is addled. 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. "I've been wondering, until this morning, if you were real. It rained slightly, and a thick mist gathered in the air, and obscured the beautiful prospect. don’t have time.
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