Annabel was in hiding all the time. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. 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. He suggested they take the remains of the household to his country estate, where he could at least hunt through the winter to provide them venison and grouse. My nerves are shaken.
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