All this was exciting and entertaining. She chastised herself for thinking of her husband and lord as being weak. "Miss Enschede, you're seven kinds of a brick!" "A brick?" He chuckled. I would be too 222 busy protecting you. "Write as I dictate," he cried, placing a pen in the jailer's hand and a pistol to his ear. She turned a resolute face southward. He sat down on the sill of the open window, folded his arms, and stared straight before him for a long time over the wilderness of tiles and chimney-pots into a sky that was blue and empty. Only her babe died.
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