In the obscurity in which it was now seen, it looked like a prison, and, indeed, it was Jonathan's fancy to make it resemble one as much as possible. F. John turned toward the short staircase as she alit upon the first creaky step. Her long incarceration at the convent in Blaye had taught her to be dismissive of her own appearance. “Julian, I don’t know how to put this. The horror of those few minutes was still with her.
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