The locket contained the face of her mother—all the family album she had. By a miracle, he averted its path, his hold on the girl’s mouth shifting fast to grasp her wrist. She stabbed him with her canines. The next page was a drawing that she had made in pen and ink of his face, or what she had remembered of it. " "I don't understand you," replied Kneebone, in some confusion. He grunted, and his grip gave. Now go. Auntie has taken the nails out of my palms, but the scars will always be there.
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