“I cannot conceive,” he said, “how any other occupation could ever have occurred to you. "It's a miserable weakness to be afraid of bloodshed. '—'What is it, Mint?' asked all three. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. Beneath the shelf, containing these books, hung the fine old ballad of 'St.
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