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. Rhea laughed and lunged for the broadsword that Sebastian had carelessly left lying on the ground. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances.
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