“I cut off his right hand pinky with his own rusty bolt cutter. Generations had been born and died in between the times she had gotten laid. ‘I can take care of myself, bête. He dug about in his mind for a term to fit her, and he came upon the word new. It’s a beautiful plant, but a tender one. ‘Burned them, one by one, right before that fellow’s eyes. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia. Let us have no more of this humbug. .
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