Why had she married him, off-hand, like that? She did not love him, or he knew nothing of love signs. The preparations to meet him were immense, roses were planted everywhere, white and drooping with honeyed fragrance. 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. Jack Sheppard is now wholly in my hands.
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