Sensing his discomfort, she stood up and brushed lint off of the hem of her gray miniskirt. “You found the cabochon? After all these years?” He asked, incredulous. From a scout stationed at the northern entrance, whom she addressed in the jargon of the place, with which long usage had formerly rendered her familiar, she ascertained that Blueskin, accompanied by a youth, whom she knew by the description must be her son, had arrived there about three hours before, and had proceeded to the Cross Shovels.
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