Her eyes still had the fevered glow of sickness, yet she seemed in perfect health. The Wastrel, his eyes full of humorous evil, stood inside the room. Michelle listed the items in her pack. He knew that at this moment Ruth lay upon her bed in torment, for she was by nature tender; and the reaction of her scathing words, no matter how justifiable, would be putting scars on her soul. ‘Bête,’ she flung at him. “I am giving my understudy a chance. Sometimes I try to talk.
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