She glanced at the Frenchman, and found him struggling with the portrait that was embedded around his scalp. ‘Where are you taking me?’ she asked, assuming a fearful accent. "Nor any one else, I suspect," answered Ireton, winking significantly. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber.
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