She mewed weakly, “Sebastian? What have you done? Where is Gianfrancesco? Did you kill him?” He crossed his arms. No breakfast, he’s had no dinner, hardly a mouthful of soup— since yesterday at tea. “Yes,” she said, very faintly. As he pocketed it, her open palm reached out and slapped his cheek. Larry Beck did his best to the flares of her temper from rising.
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