1. I'm not quite such a greenhorn as Shotbolt, Jack, whatever you may think. Opening her large black eyes, she fixed them upon him for a moment with a mixture of terror and loathing, and then averted her gaze. His obtuse hands punched and jabbed at her uselessly, then he throttled her neck with the last of his strength. She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Last night there had been no time.
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