No sterner head was ever beheld beneath the cowl of a monk, or the bonnet of an inquisitor. She found an old drunk wandering the streets. Spurlock understood that his vantage would be temporary; the Wastrel had been knocked down, not out. A glance down the passage—to see that Roding was not lurking?—and her face came back to Gerald, triumph in her eyes. “I do not lay claim,” he continued, “to any remarkable amount of insight, but it is possible, is it not, that I have stumbled upon your present cause of distress.
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