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. "We have cured his obstinacy, you perceive," he added to Marvel. "His life—or yours?" "No one shall harm you more, my dear," cried Lady Trafford. Her features were meagre, and ghastly white, and had the fixed and horrible stamp of insanity. Love and lavender, he thought, perhaps wistfully.
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