Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. Parbleu, but must she do this all through the house? Evidently she must, for not only could she not properly see the paintings and portraits that hung on the walls, but she was in imminent danger of bumping into the sheet-shrouded furniture. Somehow. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. I’d to go to Remenham House as well, and show Pottiswick your letter of authorisation.
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