Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. “I didn’t know you were half-Gypsy either. "You play?" asked McClintock, who was sorting the rolls. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. .
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