"These are my terms, Sir Rowland," he added, taking a sheet of paper from his pocket, and pushing it towards the knight. 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. Just dreamed—and ran away even from my dreams.
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