Wood could not avoid making a slight shuffling sound. For a few minutes all was silent. Sir John stood upon the threshold. Their idea of maidenly innocence was just a blank white—the sort of flat white that doesn’t shine. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it.
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