The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. I have—run away. Why? Because Howard Spurlock the author dared not risk the liberty of Howard Spurlock the malefactor; because there were still some dregs in this cup of irony. Maggot. Automatically, she glanced at the slight red graze left on her neck that marked the point where Gerald’s sword had nicked her.
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