1. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors. Her father held some printed document in his hand, and appeared not to observe her entry. Blueskin and the Minters were dragging Wood to the pump. Shamefaced curiosities began to come back into her mind, thinly disguised as literature and art. You couldn’t help it. Beyond was a chaise longue, covered with cushions and shawls laid anyhow across it, together with a discarded tapestry in the making, and a scattering of woollen threads about it.
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