Warm reality was now so near her she could hear it beating in her ears. This "fatal retreat for the unfortunate brave" was marked by a low wooden railing, within which stood the triple tree. Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. Weeks hurled past, weeks that turned into months. "Set down the kid," roared Blueskin, savagely.
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