” She turned her face to the fire, gripped her hands upon her elbows, and drew her thin shoulders together in a shrug. Now, abruptly, they were real again, though very distant, and she had come to say farewell to them across one sundering year. He had, however, planned brilliant careers for his two sons, and, with a certain human amount of warping and delay, they were pursuing these. You are my prisoner, murderer. She had eaten them, murdered them routinely, and yet he loved her still. "What proof have you of the truth of this story?" inquired Trenchard.
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