’ ‘Not if you want one of good family, no,’ he agreed mildly. My son went down after his death. The same pale white buttocks, the same freckles in the same unchanging patterns on her collarbone that all of her mother’s potions had never been able to erase. An ugly flush stained his cheeks. ’ Kimble’s widening gaze told its own tale, but still he kept his fingers on the handle of the door.
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