“What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. He pushed her to his bed, little more than a cot, and pulled off her clothes. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. I should lose every scrap of independence—even my self-respect.
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