What does it matter? I am not a pauper, Annabel. It is the horse of the priest, you understand, and—and he does not know that I have borrowed it. I drew upon every skill I had ever learned in battle in 199 her tournaments. ‘We mean you no harm,’ he said reassuringly. She had fallen into it naturally, the only expression of the dance she had ever seen or known, and that a stolen sweet. Nature is God, Anna, and the greatest artist of us all a pigmy. Everybody, he felt, must be listening behind their papers.
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