" "More blood! more blood!" cried Trenchard, passing his hand with agony across his brow. It was in this state that Mark McCloskey caught her. I took the money myself, and ought to know. 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 cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him.
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