‘That is my mother. I called myself Anna. See? Down we should rush in a foam—in a cloud of snow—to flight and a dream. I am bound to admit that I greatly enjoy my altered life. “You are a dear,” she exclaimed affectionately. 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.
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