Still, Katy Pfister is a grumpy whore who would open her legs for half the football team if given a chance. “I am afraid,” she said, “that he must have a skeleton key to these rooms. The danger you put yourself in by remaining here astounds me. I seek chaos, but not out of choice. Checking an ominous cough, that, ever and anon, convulsed her lungs, the poor woman addressed a few parting words to her companion, who lingered at the doorway as if he had something on his mind, which he did not very well know how to communicate. Then they dressed her in a dirty dress of coarse serge and a cap, and took away her own clothes. Then she passed from the room on the arm of General Lord Charvill, chatting animatedly to him. Jackson. Then he stepped briskly to his feet and bent over the wounded man.
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