That—that isn’t living! You are beside yourself. ’ The lady’s gaze dwelled thoughtfully on the half-drawn sword and then came up to meet his, an odd look in her eyes. “One is always playing the surgeon, one kills always the thing one loves best. He could lose himself for hours at a time. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. The gallows has groaned for him for years. Bring me clothing, I beg of you. He left the room, presumably to sleep elsewhere, but the only other room with a fire was the servant’s quarters.
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