“Gracious!” she exclaimed to herself. ‘Sergeant Trodger is who I am. ‘Thanks to him, Hilary and I nearly had our heads blown off. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. I dare not reflect upon the effect that her son's fate,—if the efforts to save him are ineffectual,—may have upon her enfeebled frame, and still worse upon her mind.
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