’ For a moment Gerald said nothing at all. Brendon looked across the room at her thoughtfully. Past her shot the little old lady in the bonnet, running incredibly fast, but otherwise still alertly respectable, and she was making a strange threatening sound as she ran, such as one would use in driving ducks out of a garden—“B-rr-r-r-r—!” and pawing with black-gloved hands. Ever since he's become so famous, the folks about here ha' christened it Jack Sheppard's cage. It’s your way of glossing over the ethical position. "I will administer it. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales.
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