" "You trusted too much to your own skill, Jack," rejoined Thames. " "Prolonging the misery. “Why not?” he exclaimed. Only identity, and a chance to be someone other than a nun. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. "I never had a pet. " "There's no hurry.
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