Stanley almost liked Ramage. It was the end, she told herself, fiercely. 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 live in Kent. It had, as it were, blown up at the concussion of his first step.
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