She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “Very well,” she would say, “then I must go. In this spy theory, however, he had no faith whatsoever. I hope I may never come near her. You were with your mother, the two of you huddled like thieves, laughing at the silly women who tried to shield themselves from rain by cowering under empty baskets and shawls. So I've grown hard—outside. I am a thing to be used.
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