A few yards outside the opera house where I'd been doing a job, I ran into an attractive seamstress on her way to join the opening night party inside. Her wry humor about being knocked to her feet caught my attention, and we parted on friendly terms. I saw her again last week and we talked for a long while. We decided to meet last night at my place. Her name is Chance. It turns out she's a professional of another sort--the oldest profession there is. Not your garden variety, mind you, but a courtesan. She's the mistress for a possessive merchant she wouldn't identify by name. When I woke up just after midnight, she was gone. Unfortunately, so was one of my lockpicks. Either she took it by mistake or she stole it. I hope the former, because I was beginning to like her. In any case, I need my tools back. While I don't know her exact address, I do know she lives in apartment #36 in one of the brothels in the Stew District. I'm not a paying customer, so I may have to find an alternate ent

hush..hush..sweet harlot
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