Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. ‘Shall we abandon the guard, then, sir?’ ‘Certainly not. She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. The thought passed through his mind even as he started to cross the terrace at a jogtrot, moving to head her off.
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