The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. "As it's getting late, and the porter may be gone to bed," he observed; "I'll take the pass-key, and let myself in. At sight of his wan features, she forgot the urgency of her need for a moment, and fell to her knees at his bedside, placing her hands on his slack ones where they lay on the soiled coverlet. She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. Ain't we, partner?" he added, appealing to Langley, whom punch had made rather dozy. Such was the simple code that displayed itself in all his thoughts.
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