But that doesn’t alter the fact that there IS innocence. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird. 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. Would she ever find it? Sighing, she opened the door to the next room, and drew back the drapes.
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