Wagstaff. "I beg pardon," he said. “And even then—” The conversation hung for a thoughtful moment. He found the horse where Thames told him he would find him, mounted, and rode off across the fields in the direction of town. His red hair marked him, cut short into a round shape that had the texture of a Brillo pad. A shaft of searing heat plunged downward. ‘Do not mix yourself in mine, and perhaps you will not die.
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