The winter of 1348 seemed to last an eternity, but the Pestilence struck in one day. Her lips were dry and cracked. There are pretty much three types, those that accept, and those who run away, and those who fight. Best assured of that. She wrote it down. It’s to do with adolescence. Never for a moment had violence come between these two since long ago he had, in spite of her mother’s protest in the background, carried her kicking and squalling to the nursery for some forgotten crime. This morning I met him at the dock, and he wouldn't take the other fifty. I am determined to fight my own little battle with the world —there must be a place for me somewhere, and I mean to find it.
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