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. ’ About to hurry from the little parlour, Melusine remembered Mrs Ibstock. It comforts him when he is most forlorn. ‘So that’s true, is it?’ ‘Certainly it is true,’ Melusine said, opening her eyes wide. “I don’t understand.
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