“Afterwards it seems to me that there are no limits to what one may not do amongst one’s own set. Wood, reproachfully, as they returned to the parlour. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. The thought caused him an odd kind of pang—of pity, naturally. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. She regarded him coldly, as though wondering whether he had anything further to say.
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