” Her eyes glinted, macabre. “You can count upon me, Nigel,” she said. "A bad girl?" She put the question as she would have put any question—leveleyed and level-toned. Raven locks fell to her shoulders from under the feathered beaver hat, and curled away down her back. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up.
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