F. He—In fact, he—he locked me in my room. There was a huge desk of heavily carved ebony at one end, and at the centre, a couple of straight-backed chairs stood before a great fireplace at the outer wall, flanked by two bookshelves with casement windows above. “I want a vote for myself,” she said. His cheeks were puffy, and his eyes blood-shot. The sword, Jacques.
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