You will never be happy with this hanging over you. Occasionally the flames would bend, twist and writhe crazily as the punka-boy bestirred himself. It may not be just, it may not be fair, but things are so. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Perhaps at the first blush—it strikes you as odd.
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