” “I was turned shortly after the Pestilence, the plague that they call the Black Death. “Often,” he repeated, a little heavily. This is your room. Part of his head was swathed in linen bandages. Amid a litter of nails without heads, screws without worms, and locks without wards, lay a glue-pot and an oilstone, two articles which their owner was wont to term "his right hand and his left. Nervously he pulled alongside the dilapidated oncewhite farmhouse. Up to this moment, hopes had been entertained of a respite, strong representations in his favour having been made in the highest quarter; but now that his fate seemed sealed, the curiosity of the sight-seeing public to behold him was redoubled.
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