Anna followed her finger, and looked back into her sister’s face. Selecting a key from the heavy bunch committed to him by Austin, he threw open the door, and beheld Blueskin seated at the back of the small chamber, handcuffed, and with his feet confined in a heavy pair of stocks. Something, then, to appease the wrath of God; something to blunt this persistent agony. Unless women are never to be free, never to be even respected, there must be a generation of martyrs.
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