The ink, contained in a grimy bottle unearthed in the outhouse, was old, and made blotches as soon as it touched the paper. She wouldn't be able to pass by anywhere without folks turning their heads. ‘Do that again,’ he said softly, ‘and I’ll make you sorry you ever came to England. She lunged without warning again, and Gosse, just catching her blade on his own, was obliged to retreat backwards up the little stair.
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