“What is the good of pretending?” she said. Her mother…. His fingers cherished the hilt of his sword and his eyes were on his friend and superior, ready at his back to do whatever was needed. “And yet you still live, Butterfly. Wanted her out of the way because he had been afraid of her, afraid of himself! He, at fifty-four! Then into this void poured a flaming anger, a blind and unreasoning anger.
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