Presently. She was fine and tender. She was clad in fresh linen, but still wore the riding-habit she had appropriated, having sponged out the spots of blood late last night and left it to dry in the kitchens. You know—if you want freedom. Perhaps I've been mad all these years; I don't know. She lingered over donning her winter coat, buttoning each toggle and placket, double knotting her long scarf.
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