The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. Neither Charvill nor his heir know anything of your presence in England. It was one of those old sliding trap affairs, narrow and steep of descent. At this point Lucy, in an effort perhaps—foolhardy, in Gerald’s opinion—to pour oil on troubled waters, rose swiftly to her feet and came towards the old man, her hand held out. “Why?” “I still love you.
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