As they approached London Bridge, the thief-taker whispered Van Galgebrok, who acted as steersman, to make for a particular arch—near the Surrey shore. ‘I’ll play you at your own game,’ he growled, holding the foreshortened foil in place with rigid control. At this gate two paths meet. His scent was like sweet perfume in her state, like the sweet smell of infants. I did what I could to comfort her but she died in terrible pain.
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