Her tone was hoarse with passion. What had urged her to wrench loose and fly was the guarding instinct of the good woman. ‘I’m only a poor country wench, child. Outside stood a stocky, combat boot-clad girl of seventeen with a teased mass of spiky bottle-black hair. “Accident! She shot me,” he muttered. He had a flattish, perhaps, it should be called, a flattened nose, and a brown, leathernlooking hide, that seemed as if it had not unfrequently undergone the process of tanning.
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