‘What mischief?’ ‘I don’t know, but I’ll go bail you’re at something. I want to make my own selection. Crouching down, Gerald waited, hands at the ready. ‘All so long ago and my memory ain’t what it was. Tristan dying and Isolde coming to crown his death. You love money. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony.
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