She had turned round sideways, so as to look down into the fire. 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 room was worse than pokey, it was shabby; and the view from the window, of chimney pots and slate roofs, wholly uninspiring. You see—I didn’t understand. One more passer-by; and always would she remember his patience and tenderness and disinterestedness. Why, that boy could hide for thirty years—without the girl. Somehow logic could not explain her.
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