Ramage,” she said, “I can’t—Not now. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. “Well, well, Martin. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. “And aren’t there fees to pay at the Imperial College?” her aunt was saying—a disagreeable question.
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