Shoplatch. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. “Jacques is wounded and we are arrested by this imbecile of a sergeant. ‘You’ve found her out?’ ‘Tell us at once,’ urged Miss Froxfield. “Why not?” Lady Lescelles answered. After all, they’re history in the making. And, mind! no prevaricating—nothing but the truth will satisfy me. A little table covered with a damask cloth was dragged out.
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