In lieu of the substantial habitations which he had gazed on overnight, he beheld a row of falling scaffoldings, for such they seemed. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up. “Some day,” she answered. A few seasons went by where he initiated her into the disgusting rituals of killing and eating human beings, a dark time where she pined for a rescuer who never arrived. “Forgive my coming in,” she said to Ennison. The theme was a masquerade. Jonathan threw open the street-door.
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