There was a wall; she was always encountering it; the one time she was able to break through this wall was when the part in his hair was crooked. He lost control of the machine. 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. Wood in the deepest mourning. "Much that I would willingly forget.
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