I’ve never found them hostile. 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. They were silent and no longer observant, being more or less exhausted by the tedious action of the chairs. All of us were fussy, colicky babies from what she tells me.
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