Looked all over that dratted convent of yours—or at least Trodger and the men did so—but no sign of them. ‘And I have a very good mind to kill you. ‘But you said—’ Gerald tutted. She gaped at its keep, at least ten feet tall, a frightening gray coffin turned upright. All that I regret are the wasted years, and I am not sure that I regret them.
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