‘Well, what was I to think, miss? Martha never wrote nothing about you, and I did ask. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Women are hypocrites to the last—true only to themselves.
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