"What does he say?" roared the long drover. 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. He did not write this with lead but with his heart's blood. “Yeah, I know. She fell with a plop onto her rear end in the mud and sat dumbly like a statue, water eddying around her. To stumble upon the trail through the agency of a bottle of whisky! Drank queer; so his bottle had rendered him conspicuous.
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