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Art Collection and A Poem
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1.35: The Headsman’s Mien
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... ckled in the last hours of night. Two men warmed their hands at it.
Two living men.
“Hate this fucking forest,” the first complained, casting a dark look at the surrounding trees. He was the younger of the two, though his sunken features and graying hair so closely matched his brother’s it wasn’t easy to tell.
The older brother coughed, hacked up something foul, and spat it into the fire. The log within split, scattering sparks as though trying to cough the thing back out ...
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