Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. So many things she saw that her interest stumbled rather than leaped from object to object. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. His curiosity, his literary instincts, had been submerged by the recurring thought of the fool he had made of himself. Bring me food, a man, hurry!” She placed the stone back over the crypt to hide the evidence of what she had uncovered. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale.
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