Spurlock remained where he was until the sail became an infinitesimal speck in the distance. She could almost smell her mother’s attar of white roses and lemon verbena with the memory of the story. ‘Because you are a bête, and a pig, and imbecile. She rehearsed the story of her forlorn long lost mother in her head, what she would say to the theorymongers. You couldn’t help it. Wood.
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