My letters are returned unopened, her maid will not even allow me across the doorstep. Our men had him fast, held down in a chair. Every house-top, every window, every wall, every projection, had its occupants. 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. He went on with intense urgency.
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