Senior year started with a whimper. “Who can tell?” she said. “Why can’t you tell people that you are what you are? Why all the secrecy?” She looked beyond the farmhouse. The idiots are marching through the streets in processions from town to town, whipping their own backs until they are covered in blood, spreading the bloody Pestilence wherever they go! The dead pile in the streets like timber. Only it was with a further and most unbelieving shrug of the shoulders that he resumed his seat. There was once a philanthropist who dressed with shameful shabbiness and carried pearls in his pocket.
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