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It did not matter that he wore the cloth; something was wrong with him. I don’t think women need to trouble about political questions. She looked at him confusedly, his black hair glinting under the dim lights. Presently, however, a sudden movement occurred, and disclosed his features, which were those of a young man of nearly his own age. Utter silence answered him. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. I—well, I borrowed Anna’s name.
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