She was always asking questions about her mother and supplying the answers. 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. ’ ‘I like that,’ Gerald protested. Something seemed to dredge up from the recesses of her memory and she brightened.
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