This was automatically rather than thoughtfully done; habit. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. Bodies were piled high in the streets, Sebastian went on rounds and would come back late at night, reporting horrors and robberies, death that came within hours, not days. I made a wrong choice, it seems—but my voice remains. “But Sir John?” he exclaimed. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls.
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