The little room was fragrant with flowers, Anna herself bright, and with all the evidences of well being. “I can only repeat what I said before,” she declared. 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. Me, I prefer to forget that I have such a father. By that time it seemed to them they had lived together twenty years.
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