He pushed her small hand into his jeans. "And I'll bet a doughnut that boy in his soul is crazy to have it over with. Apparently I’m not to exist yet. Profligate women are never reclaimed. “Oh goody. Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. She reached a tiny yellow-fronted cottage covered with flowering creepers, and entered the front room by the wide-open window. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. 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.
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