She thought of the suitcase, the seventy-seven dollars for a Greyhound ticket that had expired. . She bound a scarf tightly round the place where the blood seemed to be coming from. 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 don’t know, John, but I think there is something going on with Michelle.
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