This was Blueskin, who burst through the trees, and sword in hand assaulted the thief-taker. She did not realize that she was offering criticisms. After all, the Wastrel was in luck: he was alone. He saw the expression on the girl's face and understood what it signified, that it was the reflected pattern of his own. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. To him she had always appeared as a mere pleasure-loving parasite—something quite insignificant. God knows how you did it. “And, you know, you’re altering us all.
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