. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll. 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. "To-night it is their turn," said Jonathan, binding up his wounded fingers with a handkerchief. "Bring him out, Quilt. Now he would take her away from the house before killing her, and no one would find her body at all. Give me the books.
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