Ah, Thierry and Poussaint, if my memory serves me. 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. The important secret remained locked in my breast, but I resolved to be avenged. “My sister,” she murmured, “is so independent.
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