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CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"So … Dstiny? Whoring yourself s'now?” Get back to her room. Shut the door. Sleep. Eat. Face the day ahead. With Orwell’s voice roiling over her? His hand descending on her bedroom door, the one she’d just opened? And the smell, the one that was worse than the inside a keg of ten year old brandy—off ten year old brandy—making her gag? Or it might if she could rise to it.

So he’d been standing in the darkened corridor listening? To what? Hardly her moans of ecstasy. The ones that only the other night she’d thought she could rise to in order to convince her new lord and master how delighted she was with the present arrangement.

“S’now? I’m not doing anything s’now. Nothing I know of anyway. But if you’re meaning now, well, Orwell, it is certainly better than drinking oneself now, isn’t it? Especially to death. Now, if you will kindly excuse me--”

“Do you think slo? Wilth him? D’stiny, you … look, old girl, you’re a Rhodes.”