"I haven't worn anything else in weeks. She was rash and ignorant, absolutely inexperienced. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure. "I guess who you mean," rejoined Shotbolt. A small voice greeted her, hissing. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him.
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