My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall. Even the light was different in Athens, soft and golden, sweet as the morning dew blessed by Athena herself. “Want to see my fangs?” She asked. She had a political cartoon from 1785 that showed a tall man in a cape, a caricature of a French politico that looked suspiciously like him. It'll be your turn to save mine next. “None, I thank you,” he answered. Pale, flesh-colored light filtered in through the corners of the house.
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