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. Sheppard. Something that is born anew each time we meet, and pines when we are separated. Fritz sang for her sometimes, for Fritz could sing even before he was able to form words.
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