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“Do you like my dress?” “Yes, the dress is beautiful, but you are much more beautiful than any dress. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Michelle's home was one of the smaller palaces, made solidly of red brick with charming black shutters and window boxes full of drooping violets. He hung over her—he and his loan to her and his connection with her and that terrible evening—a vague, disconcerting possibility of annoyance and exposure.
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