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The cucumber was really quite good.
She loathed everything.
Me core
Rosalind would show them just how recognizable Lady Fortune was.
“You know, Oliver”—Celia slapped her hand down, leaning forward—“it is really hard to provoke my temper, but somehow you are incredibly good at it.” The faintest hint of a smile tugged at his lips. “I have missed you quite fiercely.”
“Do you think,”
“that I’m foolish enough to believe any of them out there like me? They would desire nothing more than to see me break into pieces so they can snap a picture and make it a headline: ‘What Finally Kills an Immortal Girl?’ ”
“Until I am dead, I am still immortal and larger than life—larger than every single one of you within the Nationalists. If I say get in line for a sound bite, then the reporters will get in their little lines and let me speak.”
Regret is an emotion reserved for the powerless. There is no need for it here.
Fortune. It’s just Fortune—my goodness, where did this Lady ever come from?
“You are nobody.” “Excuse me?” A wave of irrational anger overrode the pain of her landing. “I am your wife.
“Yes, thank you, mèimei—how could I forget to stitch my wound closed in the middle of battle?”
Alisa let out a shriek. Rosalind stiffened, except when Alisa ran forward and launched herself at the stranger, she realized it wasn’t a sound of alarm but sheer delight. “Oh my God,” the man said. He wrapped his arms around Alisa tightly, holding her up. “Oh my God, Alisa, you’re so big now.” He was speaking Russian. And his voice sounded… familiar. Slowly, Rosalind turned to the woman. Holy shit. She was seeing ghosts. The woman yanked the square of fabric off her face. “Biǎojiě,” Juliette Cai said, grinning. “Don’t you recognize me anymore?”
“Putain.” “Mon Dieu, surveille ton langage.”
Juliette Montagova. Arisen from the dead and bearing a solution.
Twenty-four is practically retirement age in Shanghai.”
