” A bureaucratic three hours later, the paperwork was finished. She dragged the broken bottle across her carotid artery, creating an inch-deep gash upon her throat. She had been obliged to spend the night in that fateful bedchamber, the faithful Kimble—who had foraged at a nearby inn, bringing back a large pie and a jug of porter for his mistress—guarding the door outside. To them all I am nothing. “I’m still inside you. ‘Ask him.
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