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"My hands are too big," he said. "These marks are too small. I am made for fighting, not scratching."
His friend, who had managed a better shape by moving slower, snorted.
"Your brain is too small," he replied. "Not your hands."
The older man glared.
"Say that again."
"You heard me."
They would have started wrestling if Isabella had not flicked a small stone at them.
It hit both of their foreheads with perfect accuracy.
"If you ...
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