Ennison,” he said, “it is for you to cut in at Lady Angela’s table. 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'd like to shake you until your bones rattled; but the bones of a Roundhead wouldn't rattle to any purpose.
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