’ She halted, her pistol still held firm and straight, both hands gripping it, her expressive features at once determined and uncertain. She could still remember herself at age five, staring knives and daggers at the men who came into the small yarn shop, under pretense of business but really just to leer. His name was Marvel, and his avocation, which was as repulsive as his looks, was that of public executioner. “Forgive me,” he said. She ran from the knave into the women’s quarters.
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