He said the place had gone to wrack. He would have sent the Virgin Mary to heal the baby. In Old Palace Yard everybody ran. But he was a thief, a fugitive from justice. His gangling body was clothed in rusty twill trousers and a long black seersucker coat, buttoned to the throat, around which ran a collar which would have marked him the world over as a man of the Word. It was cramped even at the end of the passage. “If I am,” he answered, reddening, “you can scarcely assert that it is without a cause. 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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