Except he was the only idiot who would stay. It fell with a clatter to the floor. . The time was the 26th of November, 1703: the place, the Mint in Southwark. E. Ashen blonde, a shade that would never excite the cynical commentary which men applied to certain types of blondes. She made a slow tour of the front of the house without success, and then started back along the rooms behind, dragging open the drapes each time to get just enough light to recognise what was on the walls. Only she hadn’t.
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