"The Wastrel seemed to take it all right. "When is he to suffer?" she demanded, fixing her large black eyes, which burnt with an insane gleam, upon him. Too close, he reasoned, for safety. T’weren’t fitting, we knew that. “I do not understand. I see that I am a beast—I beg your pardon, bête—and an imbecile, and an idiot. Don't be afraid. For what she lacked in appearance, Sheila compensated in gossip.
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