‘It is all the fault of that lantern. 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. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself.
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