The others hurried to the window. The female’s words caught at his attention, and he no longer heard what the young Poussaint girl was saying to him. She was like an angel with one wing. "Where is your accursed master?" demanded Blueskin, holding the sword to his throat. “That beast of a fellow is certain to be hanging about. But beyond "amicable agreement in which mutual concessions are made," the word "compromise" was as blank as the Canton wall at night. She brought her face to his chest, turning her head sideways so he would not notice her elongated canines.
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