She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters. The procession had just got into line of march, when a dreadful groan, mixed with yells, hootings, and execrations, was heard. ‘Do you swear it? There’s no knowing if one can believe you. Mercifully, John had been sick for two of the three days of Thanksgiving week, giving her reprieve from both his presence and the machinations of Katy Pfister, who was always less active on days when he was not around.
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