At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up. Lucy sprinted to one side to avoid the crash and grabbed at Rhea’s solitary patch of yellow hair, which ripped out loosely in one decayed piece like strands of rotten corn silk. “I”—he seemed to have a difficulty with the word—“I love you. And through all these defences and into Old Palace Yard, into the very vitals of the defenders’ position, lumbered the unsuspected vans. Horrible doubts assailed her.
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