"Poor thing!" muttered he, as the widow departed on her errand, "she's seen better days and better circumstances than she'll ever see again, I'm sure. His name is John. Pile it on! But if you can hear the voice of the mote, the speck, don't let her suffer for anything I've done. Look at the cock’s feathers, look at the competition there is everywhere, except among humans. Blueskin might have butchered you and your brat before I'd have lifted a finger to prevent him, if it hadn't suited my purposes to do so, and he hadn't incurred my displeasure. The danger or difficulty of an exploit never appalled him. “So what is John up to today?” Lucy asked with a weary smile.
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