He pulled on his pants, his yellow shirt with the ridiculous horse logo, his brown socks, and shoes. There was only one small grated window in this hold, which admitted but little light. “I was frightened then,” she declared. “Why are you so distant? Why all the mystery? What are you, a narc? Double-oh-seven or something?” She steeled herself, refusing to react. Afterward goes on to Oxford. "We're all damaged—we've all got broken pates," cried a dozen voices.
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