If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her. ’ ‘I do not marry a man who makes me a threat like this,’ she flashed. He's rewriting Poe and De Maupassant; and that stuff was good only when Poe and De Maupassant wrote it. The prisoner was then thrust in by Quilt. All alone; and nobody cared whether he lived or died. Your family has not sullied itself by dabbling in it, at least not 173 from what I know, so now is not the time to begin.
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