As she looked in this direction, the thief-taker raised his eyes—those gray, blood-thirsty eyes!—their glare froze the life-blood in her veins. “Very good,” he said. I don’t care what else there is in the world. Woof! What a dog. The oaken beam, nine inches in thickness, was now the sole but most formidable obstacle to his flight. Her target was a fifty-four year old man who lived with his mother, an obese neighborhood woman, a widow named Dawn Plote. “I brought a man with me who is posted outside,” he remarked. Absolutely. Chapter XXI HER SISTER’S SECRET “I think,” Lady Ferringhall said, “that you are talking very foolishly.
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