She had omitted that the flu had been called the Black Death and that it was a dead child that had been inside that womb, so many hundreds of years ago. That held his thought as the magnet holds the needle, inescapably. “It is a great art,” she said in broken English. He blushed, too, spiritually, as it were. ‘I am glad it is you, because you can help me. ’ He sat looking her over in silence for a moment or two, his thoughts revolving around the name and the way it fitted so exquisitely on quite another set of features.
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