My nerves were in rags. Plote was sleeping or deaf. For all her begging she had been given the choice to go into the nunnery and “learn how to read scrolls with the rest of God’s Spinsters” by her father, but had quickly lost interest when presented with the idea of bearing babies. He had been formally adopted by the Becks at the age of twelve. Master, your humble servant. She let go of him and stood up, straightening herself.
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