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Updated: May 21, 2025
Conniston sprang forward to follow up the blow. But Brayley had caught his balance and was leaping to meet him, snarling. His hard, toil-blackened fist drove through Conniston's guard, striking him full upon the jaw.
The story would come out, bit by bit, as the woman sat there, a worn, unlovely figure, her hands toil-blackened, seamed, calloused, unlovelier than any woman's hands were ever meant to be lying in unaccustomed idleness in her lap.
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