“Cut her throat!” Sebastian snapped. Missy looked like a troll with lipstick on. And thus it was that she came upon a book of Stevenson's verse—her first adventure into poetry. Dolls. "My son," she murmured, wringing her hands piteously—, "my son the companion of thieves! My son in Jonathan Wild's power! It cannot be. There were more of us back then, and we weren’t seen as ghouls, in fact, in Greece and the time before we were worshipped as gods.
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