You’re a piss-poor liar, John. ‘I’ve finished me report, sir,’ Trodger said aggrievedly. “It isn’t only the dance,” she said. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. She ran her gaze over him, and allowed her eyelashes to flutter down. It would give me great pleasure if you would dine with me somewhere first.
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