As the Wastrel rushed, Spurlock sidestepped, swept the ball into his hand, set himself and threw it. The day was so darkly overcast that she had to turn on the small white porcelain lamp that sat upon the makeup crowded vanity. ‘I’ve eyes in my head, haven’t I?’ He grunted. Until the last few months. ‘He can’t be Valade, that’s certain,’ mused Gerald, unheeding. Not alone with her, that’s sure.
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