He fancied that the turnkeys had discovered his flight and were in pursuit of him,—that they had climbed up the chimney,—entered the Red Room,— tracked him from door to door, and were now only detained by the gate which he had left unbroken in the chapel. “It’s all dirt that washes off, dear, but it’s dirt. “How do you know—why do you think that my name is Anna?” He smiled in a quietly superior way. She cut a deep gash into her own arm with a steel screw, loosing drops of her own blood onto the floorboards.
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