The man who sat behind a pigeon-hole, and regulated the comings and goings, was for a moment absent. 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. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child.
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This video was uploaded to newyorkairportlimo.mobi on 30-06-2024 00:56:09
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