The nun on the threshold was of middle age and heavily built, her back uneven from toil and her hands roughened. Lucy inhaled deeply. " "Wood's daughter, I suppose?" observed the other. 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. ” John tried to direct the topic away from him.
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