“I expected you this morning,” he said. The windows were still darkened—perhaps she was not home yet. The music took hold of her slowly as her eyes wandered from the indistinct still ranks of the audience to the little busy orchestra with its quivering violins, its methodical movements of brown and silver instruments, its brightly lit scores and shaded lights. I don’t want you to talk to me now. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day.
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