Michelle walked towards the sloping Victorian stairs. 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. Anna opened a cupboard and produced cups and saucers and a tin of coffee. Every window, from the groundfloor to the garret had its occupant, and the roofs were covered with spectators. “My mind is full of confused stuff,” he said at length.
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