She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. “What year was 221 that, about 1350?” He asked in wonderment. You see, the horse it does not belong to me, nor to the nuns. It was a brief solitude, however. Gerald glanced down and saw her dash at a spread of blood on his own hand, only now realising that her dagger had found its mark.
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