The air was sweet with the smoky perfume of myrrh, hazy and dense with incense. Until the last few months. ‘But the fact remains that you should not have enjoyed it, you were quite right to threaten to kill me, and I— God help me!—should not have kissed you at all. ‘Come, cry a truce. I can wield a quarterstaff as well as a prize-fighter, and have beaten Figg himself at the broadsword. You forget all the mass of training and tradition and instinct that go to make him a tolerable master.
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