A chill rain thrummed against the sides of John’s car, having slowed from deluge to steady patter, the snow was 158 dissolved where it lay. ‘And I’ll say it as often as I choose, you confounded impertinent wench! Who do you think you’re talking to? I’m your grandfather, girl. Montressor’s guests were. In you—if you can love me—there is salvation. Kneebone?" "He'd better not," muttered Blueskin.
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