” “Why do you think so?” she asked. ‘Silence,’ he warned again, with a prod of the dagger at her heart. But give me till to-morrow—only till to-morrow—I may be able to part with him then. He had forgiven everybody. They may love us, but they love us as the slave loves his captor, not as equals. His heart hammered in his chest. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. I’ve never wanted to get away so much. There was a third lady among the younger set. .
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