She heard the sounds of Rhea scuttling about, and then feeding, brutally. Wood's bed-chamber—it was locked, with the key left in it. I want to love him. Her white shirt was mired with a central bloodstain, his pants caked with mud. One cannot successfully argue with a drunken man. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. She tested the limits to see how far 79 she could go, often running away for the day, causing him to fret and pace. “That,” she answered, “is far easier to believe.
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