“Lucy, have you noticed that I don’t even own a dog?” He spoke into her hair. The Wastrel—as we call him—cannot play when he's sober; hands too shaky. ‘But on the off chance—slim, I grant you —that there is a spy down there, I don’t want to miss the fun. She would rend him limb from limb like a fiend if only she could move. Gravely he placed them in his aunt's hand.
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