Her patience was waning fast. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. She wanted to stay where she was; but tears were dangerous; the more she wept, the weaker she would become defensively. She tried to imagine herself “getting something,” to project herself as sitting down at a desk and writing, or as returning after her work to some pleasantly equipped and free and independent flat. It was still possible the child might be in safety.
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