"When in France, I heard from the Marshal that his brother had perished in London on the night of the Great Storm. "That's odd. But from the rest—you saved me. Loans will just ruin my life because I need so many of them. I really am enjoying it. A little inn flying a Swiss flag nestles under a great rock, and there they put aside their knapsacks and lunched and rested in the mid-day shadow of the gorge and the scent of resin. The Wastrel wiped the blood from his forehead.
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