The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. "I am twenty," said the girl. Something insisted that those two were mysteriously linked—that the woman knew the man was there. 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. And now you know.
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