It was open. In fact, Kimble was drowsily awake when she entered the little bedchamber, the state of which left a good deal to be desired, even without the added debris arising from tending a wounded man. That was the glorious if bewildering truth. Mike was drinking a cup of black coffee. It was not human and yet very human, a high pitched wail of hunger that rattled her skull. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. The lady's name's engraved inside, but so small I can scarcely read it. “Leave them!” He yelled.
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