Horrible memories of things seen beneath the microscope of the baser forms of life crawled across her mind and set her shuddering with imagined irritations. He dodged the boot this time, and smashed his left upon the Wastrel's lips, leaving them bloody pulp. "I have some difficulty in preventing myself from becoming your executioner. So long as they're about, I'll always be rewriting them and wasting my time. The dress came to her only too manifestly unwashed from its former wearer; even the under-linen they gave her seemed unclean.
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