Her fingers found the lump she sought and, with a little effort, she dragged out the black-wrapped foil. Perhaps the old fool was not as fanciful as they had thought. ‘Don’t look at me like that,’ Martha begged. But a woman’s life is all chance. They were sharp and dripping with black blood. If they do, now and then, run away with a knocker, paint a sign, beat the watch, or huff a magistrate, they pay for their pastime, and that's sufficient. Though they do, in secret, I believe. The city presented a terrible picture of devastation.
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