"But I'm a blackguard, too, Ruth. She could still remember his face, the perpetually wet lips that turned down at the sides, his drooping Roman eyes. She stared at his pleading face. Jack Kimble. I’d rather die than hear any more fairytales. Horrors abounded in every passageway as each turn could bring a vision of a poor woman running from her screaming plague-infested son or a bloated corpse of a rich man whose mouth lolled open, showing gaps where someone had pried out a few golden teeth.
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