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She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. ‘What can I do, miss?’ ‘Nothing at all,’ cried Melusine. She stared at him. The place was gloomy, with its darkly panelled walls, but it was sparsely furnished. He stood up, apparently intending to put an arm about her, but she stepped back from him quickly.
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