"I have killed you," cried Jack, endeavouring to staunch the effusion of blood from her breast. “How did you hear that?” Lucy’s brows knitted. 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. Her aunt glanced up startled, and then sat very still, with hands that had ceased to work.
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