She wrong
her hands with a sort of cry.
"Oh! I know, I know; they have put her in the dead-cart, and
buried her in the plague-pit. O my dear, sweet young mistress."
"If you had stayed by your dear, sweet young mistress, instead of
running screaming away as you did, it might not have happened,"
said La Masque, in a tone between derision and contempt.
"Madame," sobbed the old woman, who was crying, "she was dying of
the plague, and how could I help it? They would have buried her
in spite of me."
"She was not dead; there was your mistake. She was as much alive
as you or I at this moment."
"Madame, I left her dead!" said the old woman positively.
"Prudence, you did no such thing; you left her fainting, and in
that state she was found and carried to the plague-pit."
The old woman stood silent for a moment, with a face of intense
horror, and then she clasped both hands with a wild cry.
"O my God! And they buried her alive - buried her alive in that
dreadful plague-pit!"
La Masque, leaning against a pillar, stood unmoved; and her
voice, when she spoke, was as coldly sweet as modern ice-cream.
"Not exactly.
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