She stopped abruptly at the sound of his voice, and lost the thread of what she was saying. “You are not boring me,” she said, “but I would rather talk of something else. ‘Who kills who?’ ‘Rot in hell,’ he snarled, panting, and managed to push himself forward and leap off the dais, running for the safety of the far aisle by the wall. "Jack Sheppard's fingers are lime-twigs.
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