‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. Sheppard, which she gratefully declined. They were exquisite. Every drop of blood in her body glowed and expanded. Puffy blue curtains dressed every oakstained window. ‘Ah, now I may see what damage Gérard has done to me,’ she muttered, crossing to the table and putting her hand to the sore place at her neck. Then to Dan Ware's, in Hanging Sword Court. He frowned.
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