“I cannot pretend that I am glad to see you, Lady Ferringhall,” he said quietly. Looked like them statues of the Holy Mother I see about the place. “Silly!” he remarked after a pause. She guarded her mother, or at least she had liked to think so. Look in the small hide-bound book that he keeps in his boot. Let me recommend a glass of wine. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor.
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