A stout wooden shutter, opening inwardly, being removed, disclosed a grating of iron bars. He had been frozen in time at age forty-two. Both had very singular faces; very odd wigs, very much pulled over their brows; and very large cravats, very much raised above their chins. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. It was in fact the first embrace of motherhood she had ever known. "Souls," she answered, drily.
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