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Even as she watched, the sweat of weakness began to form on his forehead and under the nether lip. What's-your-name?" "Shotbolt, Sir," replied the jailer. Sebastian knew a dozen languages and could speak them fluently, plus he had an aptitude for numbers that Gianfrancesco did not. "Drink this," cried Jonathan, handing her the cup. And she would have rushed to him, if she had not been forcibly withheld by her son.
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