You are—horrible. 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. She could still smell the now familiar scent of him on the girl's body in the makeshift grave. It wasn’t. ‘Can’t you trust me a little?’ His touch sent shivers running through her, but Melusine did not withdraw her hand.
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