He was perhaps forty-five years of age. The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. She parted the curtains to find him standing there. ‘I do not know how you think you may help me,’ she said slowly. She was with these movements—akin to them, she felt it at times intensely—and yet something eluded her. More than half the city perished. His chin was angular and his lips were 16 small, his mouth tiny and refined.
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