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It was not the arrival of the guests, but merely the maid moving about in the hall. Lucy led Michelle to the skeleton of the newly emerging two-story. Members of the crowd looked over their shoulders and stared at her through the smoky haze. 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. "I've waited supper, you perceive. ‘Come, cry a truce.
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