The baby boy was delivered in a sea of black blood, born dead and blue, and strangled by plague. And through it all, like a golden thread on a piece of tapestry, weaving in and out of the patterns, the unspoken longing for love. CHAPTER XXVII. I was curious about that. "I could almost forgive the wretch the injury he did me in depriving me of my poor dear wife—No, not quite that," he added, a little confused.
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