His fingers slipped under the collar of her linen shift and he tore it open with a swipe. The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. The militiaman at once thrust the old man between the shoulder blades, pushing him into the kitchen. Piercing through every crevice in the clothes, it, in some cases, tore them from the wearer's limbs, or from his grasp.
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