"I knew how it would be," she cried, in the shrill voice peculiar to a shrew, "when you brought that worthless hussy's worthless brat into the house. I overlooked the mechanical imperfections of your work, the utter lack of finish, the crudeness of your drawing. “All right, Dunster,” he said. ‘You are mad,’ Gosse uttered, and only just had time to get himself up from the floor. Sebastian, too, seemed to be immune, even though cats, dogs, and beasts of the suffered just as the humans did: blackening and dying, their eyes rolling, their bodies covered with bald buboes. Then there was Tom Jarrot, the hackney-coachman, who was pitched off the box against yonder curbstone, and broke his leg.
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