The subterranean level of the Diedermayer house was fully bedecked with every luxury known to mankind. I want to be your knight, your servant, your protector, your—I dare scarcely write the word—your husband. "Your mother is dead," interposed Wild, scowling. She packed her backpack with a change of clothes, some rags, and her old length of piano wire. "Let me go," cried Winifred.
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