“Ruin me? Think of me with fondness? Are you dying of cancer or something?” He demanded. Perhaps, after all, the others were right. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent. “She was the High Priestess who turned me in Greece, before Rome. “I was sick of the make-believe. Shoving between them, she confronted the captain herself. Men had tried to kiss her— unshaven derelicts, some of them terrible—but she had always managed to escape.
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