He walked through the misty September night to his rooms. His salvation—if there was to be any—lay in her ignorance of life. “Who’s your violin teacher?” He asked. The chapel was crowded to excess. . She resumed her on guard position, and glaring steadily at him, waited again. A pair of long-lashed blue eyes studied them both as she slowly brought her hands down to rest by her sides. It was a young girl who overheard me when I was on my third shopkeeper who answered my question. . ’ He stared at the point, glanced at the fallen sword imprisoned by her foot, and only just looked back at her weapon in time to see it thrust at him again.
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