” Lucy said, already exhausted by her friend. 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. Corbet Kynaston, then? Sir John Packington's courier was here yesterday. That register would be easy to get at; comforting thought.
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