"Aren't you afraid?" "Of what?"—serenely. The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. And you are something of a heroine, too. She dared not look directly at him, her head obscured by a gray hoodie, she had the slumped appearance of an androgynous adolescent. Lucy slipped upstairs silently. To his relief, she nodded. .
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