" "That boy'll never rest till he finds his vay to Bridewell," observed Sharples. " "No," replied Sir Rowland, who appeared completely prostrated. She breathed into a cloth soaked in rose oil as Sebastian had prescribed, but the smell of roses mixed obscenely with the smell of death and decay, causing her to retch. First, look at this glove. Does that boy live in some sort of personal cave? Like, I think he might even be thinking about asking you out again! That is what I think. That was life.
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