Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly. ” It occurred to her that she had never seen her father dining out before, never watched him critically as an equal. His arm entered the round window of the white haze of her vision, his wrist spouting blood in currents, dripping on the stone floor. Instinctively she knew—some human recollection she had inherited—that she must not disturb him in this man-agony. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely.
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