" The prison bars of circumstance, they no longer encompassed her. Am I so forgettable?” He strode down the hall as she ran to catch up with him past lockers someone had painted an abysmal shade of gray blue. "I can't hold it much longer—it'll break my wrist. Not one of them but bore the marks of having been engaged in a recent and severe conflict. The smells of skewered fennel, roast chicken, and broiled pheasant saturated the air, and she could smell other wonderful aromas about them. ‘She didn’t behave in the least like an émigré, if these people are anything to go by. "She has fallen into the villain's hands. “Perhaps for me,” she added, with a sudden wistful look out of the bare high window, “a night of beginnings.
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