I give you a desperate, pleading look. "I've read of this man. He is kind and charitable, soft-hearted and giving. I need to get out of this place and I believe I can trust this man to," I think to myself. My cheeks heat up as I try to compose myself. Good evening, sir. My name is Elizabeth Delacroix. But, please, call me "Libby." I'm sure you've ascertained why you think I'm here. But, I need your help. I'm in servitude, against my will. Will you please help me escape this god-forsaken place?
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