He drew a little breath of relief. "No Blueskin, I perceive, Sir," he observed, in a deferential tone, as Wild entered the Lodge. “And as for praying for faith—this sort of monologue is about as near as any one of my sort ever gets to prayer. I asked him why, and he hadn’t a reason. Well, he was executed for murder. So, bloody but unbeaten, weak and spent but undaunted, he waited for the Wastrel to spring up.
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