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He went into the study and sat down at his table, but not to write. “I’m sorry. 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. Doctors constantly admonished and offered weak consolation that most would have been hurt much worse from the type of fall he took. He'd never forgive you. But it is no longer necessary. Those were dreams. What matters it? My servant, he is wounded—and by a Frenchman, if you wish to make an arrest. Half an hour's labour, during which he was obliged more than once to pause to regain breath, sufficed to make a hole wide enough to allow a passage for his arm up to the elbow.
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This video was uploaded to pok-ddal23.live on 20-05-2024 12:30:46
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