He pressed the bloody wrist into her mouth, and she though she could not feel it or 72 control it, she knew she was being made to swallow. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. ‘But this Englishwoman,’ asked the man Valade, his puzzlement plain to see, ‘who was she?’ The question irritated Charvill. She came back with two women, one in each arm, which she threw down like sticks as she alit onto the stone causeway.
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