Then he relaxed back a little, and let the weapon dangle from his fingers. This is not what I want. If only there had not been this single torturing thought—a mere pin-prick, but still curiously persistent. He was so seldom wrong. She was glad when he went on: “I want to be your city of refuge from every sort of bother. “And where,” he asked, “are my rivals?” “Deserters,” she answered, laughing. It was intolerable to think that he might overhear words and phrases.
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