It is no fault of your own that you are not at this moment standing there with your head blown off. Her fingers rested upon his. " Sir Rowland moved irresolutely towards the door, but recoiled before a sad spectacle. A familiar ache of wanting made itself more insistent in her belly. She required no instructions from books; her wit and beauty were her own. She passed him silently as she dropped Michelle’s dried corpse into the open clay pit awkwardly, like a discarded doll.
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