"'Sdeath! do you trifle with me, sirrah?" cried Rowland fiercely. It does not matter to him either way. "If you two loved each other," went on the doctor, "there would be something to stand on—a reason why for this madness. 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.
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