"Can I help you, Jack?" asked Thames, taking up a plane. “It is not that. In the middle there was a gate. We have to get them to let us in for the profits of their business, and in return we ask them to—dinner. 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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