Dizzily, she grabbed at the mantel for support and, resting her head on her hands, paid no heed to a betraying sound behind her—until an unexpected arm encircled her. And they pay her. “You are the most perfect, the most glorious of created things—tender, frank intellectual, brave, beautiful. “I cannot part with you. But I must summon my janizaries. I'm not noble; so my honourable ancestors will not turn over in their graves.
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