’ ‘Don’t you believe it. Her bonnet dropped off and was trampled into the gutter. “I suppose I ought to congratulate you,” he said. Had it not been for the Plague, she might have had her own babies. Then she took her sister’s hand. As time wore on, and they did not return, Mr. Lucia had never been so happy, so content. Never. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. It’s—Mrs. . They are tending to congregate, our poor French friends.
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