“I’ve got bad faults. “Your mother was a Gypsy. He was a Canton guide, highly educated, having been graduated from Yale University. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. He was a thin old man, a wreck in a ruined body, but nothing would induce him to stand in any other way than as stiffly erect as possible like the soldier he had always been, even though he was obliged to lean on his silver-handled cane to do so.
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