\" Shari drawled as she looked up from her dissected sausage. Mike was draped over the laminate kitchen counter, on the phone as usual. He whispered in her ear. "Where is he?" asked Jonathan. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. And you are something of a heroine, too.
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