She was not allowed to bathe herself: another prisoner, with a privileged manner, washed her. "Too late, master," replied the landlord of the Trumpeter, in a surly tone, for he did not much like the appearance of his customer; "just shut up shop. And at the sight something leaped within her. Her linen gown was soft against the heavy skins. She cursed the treachery of memory, its frailty and spottiness.
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