She had gladly lowered her eyes as she had been instructed to in front of the fine ladies and lords, as she was more interested in their clothing and fripperies than their faces. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. At the end of two long lines of foot-guards stood the cart with a powerful black horse harnessed to it. I’ve never had these crying fits before.
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