Doesn’t matter a bit to me. His eyes were red. She might even forgive him. ’ 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. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. He beheld the grey tower of Willesden Church, embosomed in its grove of trees, now clothed, in all the glowing livery of autumn. Half the rooms empty.
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