Her hands wove through his black hair, luxuriating in its thickness. It’s a sort of blacklegging to want to have a life of one’s own. On this second excursion, forewarned, she would use no light and keep as quiet as a mouse, she vowed, and thus refrain from attracting the attention of the militia at the gates. It was bad luck to go to Canongate. “It’s not for us to supplicate any more. ” “Personally,” he went on, “I must confess to a great disappointment.
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