She kicked both of her legs with the force of a bull, sending a blow into Rhea’s borrowed legs. 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. What little happiness I had I was forced to steal. They were a dull grey, but the dark frizzed hair that framed her face was attractive. More than ever a sense of confusion was upon Ennison.
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