. ’ She struggled. So while he talked to this girl of work and freedom, his slightly protuberant eyes were noting the gracious balance of her limbs and body across the gate, the fine lines of her chin and neck. He let go of the girl’s arm. The Wastrel did not relish this. “Anything is better than this—this stifled life down here. A curious silence ensued. Her eyes were insane with rage, crusted with yellow and green, only beginning to heal from her long sojourn underground.
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