He sat down. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. She would flee to the wild fastnesses, the places where there were no overarching systems of any use, where she could blend with the unstable populace and kill in relative peace. The vicomte has, he say, enough femmes in his hands. He relayed many details of the location and the beautiful rivers of her home, a subject she never tired of.
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