It hardly served his interests. Mr. “Remember,” he said, “you are not by any means a dying man now, but you’ll never pull through if you don’t husband your strength. Wood. I've got the watch-spring saw in my sleeve. 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. The clock struck half-past ten. I’ll do it.
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