If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. “I’m not gentle. 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. She felt his whole mind sounding in ecstasy. Turning, she heaved at the bottom door and slammed it in his face just as he came leaping forward to grab her.
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