The duke of Burgundy.
She had changed, the sweet had gone, it no longer stuck or flowed like gentle night jasmine. Instead she crumbled on awkward hips, that over threw their weight, tearing her form side to side, a searing jolting pain . It was his mark. carried over from Burgundy, in and between the wars. Thick and tary in all his full, and murderous, plays; each one a sabotage, each one a deliberately, ruining aim. MB
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