" "I think I remember reading something about your father in the papers," observed Wood. At once there came an answering knock. She had braved all obstacles to pursue her dream. ‘Didn’t mean it, love. . ’ ‘I’m coming to that. His build was medium, he would never 5 tower over his peers, yet his shoulders were broadening, betrayed by an undeveloped set of pectoral muscles underneath his button-down shirt that she could tell frustrated him. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth. \" She opened the front door with her keys, stepping inside. "Rather a devil," groaned her son, "to have done this. "To paint your portrait," answered the jailer.
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