I cannot do it, David. The taste of his sweat was intoxicating, like sweet brandy, like blood. While he was thus occupied, Thames, prompted by an unaccountable feeling of curiosity, took up the penknife which the other had just used, and examined the haft. At length she hit upon it: bubbling water. The Jacobite. Even in her hatred, she began to realize that Sebastian’s intelligence was much greater than Gianfrancesco’s. It seemed to her at this moment that there was nothing left for her to do. Too late.
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