. . I can’t forget about your sister. His last actions were futile. The young fellow was almost as odd in his way as the girl was in hers. 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. Never before had he seen a man like Enschede nor heard a voice like Ruth's.
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