I’m not Gerald, remember. It was a castoff of Shari’s from her brief obsession with sewing. Slowly she released the hammer on the pistol, uncocking it, and Gerald became conscious that he had been holding his breath. There are no funerals among the poor, only burials. A man, then, rushed up the entry, and, seizing the unlucky carpenter by the collar, presented a drawn sword to his throat. "Can't I settle this business, Captain," muttered Blueskin, drawing a pistol.
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