He tore it down just as the Wastrel rose, wavering slightly. “Indeed, you could have no more faithful friend, you could find no one more anxious to serve you. How old are you?” She asked. She looked steadfastly out. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror.
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