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The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. She turned to Martha as the lad exited by the back door, but her nurse forestalled anything she might have said. It was as if Grace-church Street, with all its shops, its magazines, and ceaseless throng of passengers, were stretched from the Middlesex to the Surrey shore. Celeste introduced him to me—oh, how Celeste hated me! She must have known. Get on, do. ‘No one is here, Melusine, except you and I. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were.
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