Rhea writhed and scuttled about like a crab. “He’s quite the inventor. The material cares of life hang about your neck like a millstone. “Do something!” But he laid by his prey, half-watching the fight, gorging on the woman he had caught that had been meant for Rhea and her child. She reflected before answering. Montague Hill. A species of vertigo seized him. There's good stuff in him, if one could find the way to dig it out.
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