He was human. ‘I’ll wager that militiaman never rode the animal, then. The air was pungent and leaden. ’ ‘Yes, I’m sorry about that,’ Gerald uttered in a rueful tone. 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. “After all,” he said, “I am not sure that you are not a very material person.
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