London was wracked by the plague. Daily thousands of people were washed away; grass sprang in the streets; and the survivors hardly ever had enough time to bury the dead. The plague pits and pest-houses were both crowded; nobody knew who awoke healthy in the morning or who may be lying bare and dead in a few hours. All of the walls and the corniced ceiling were carved, gilded, and fretted with gold network. The chamber was mirrored in a large mirror, and a toilet-table covered in diamonds, lace, perfume bottles, and a variety of pricey small feminine trinkets that ladies used to own stood underneath it. Although it was a very dark and gloomy night when Sir Norman Kingsley found Ormiston's body in Leoline's home, to him everything was as light as the lovely hills of Beulah. It was clear that the angry face, which was facing the moonlight, belonged to a dead guy. Not even the plague could claim a victim this swiftly. If George hadn't detained him with a loud yell, Sir Norman in his panicked flight would have likely gone past him unobserved.
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