’ ‘I do not care any more about the portrait,’ Melusine said, opening the door to the attic corridor that gave off onto the row of little rooms that served as private cells for the senior nuns. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. Nothing was given away, and no one came so rich to the stall as to command all that it had to offer.
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