Spurlock mused over the previous night. The babies that the woman—your wife—refused to stop creating. Annabel was born soulless, a human butterfly, if ever there was one. The Magdalene. Listening at one of the doors leading to the Master Debtors' side, he heard a loud voice chanting a Bacchanalian melody, and the boisterous laughter that accompanied the song, convinced him that no suspicion was entertained in this quarter. I’m six hundred and forty-eight years old, John! I should have never seduced a young boy, let alone expected him to keep my secrets for me.
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