Sitting around it, their backs propped on the central column, their lumpy legs outstretched, was a ring of red-handed stuffy-guys. Roland put the note back into the corvette, tied the lace, and then tucked the little purse into his own shirt. He had made some indefinable but powerful connection between Olive Thorin—her sad but game little smile from the foot of the table—and his own mother. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder and yanked, turning him naked out of bed and onto the floor.
Better safe than sorry. “Want a bite o’ sumpin good? Here ye go!”He threw the chunk of raw liver. It’s working on him, too. Shoes tumbling through the air.
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