The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. "What shall we do, Poll?" hesitated Edgeworth Bess. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. It ran in rivulets down her face, penetrating her hood and the thick quilting of her coat. The cultivated indifference, which was part of the armour of his little world fell away from him. Just what it means. He would take her with great force.
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