They were childless and servantless, and they had reduced simple living to the finest of fine arts. He stopped on the curb-stone, not facing her but as if he was on his way to cross the road, and spoke to her suddenly over his shoulder. She bent down. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. Her eyes were lit with smouldering passion. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. It was a bright and beautiful day: so bright, so beautiful, that even her sad heart was cheered by it.
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