” He sighed. A chain, riveted to an iron belt encircling her waist, bound her to the wall. Still—you must learn for yourself. ’ Mrs Ibstock’s lips tightened and she looked away a moment. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. She rambles continually about Jack, and her husband, and that wretch Jonathan, to whom, as far as can be gathered from her wild ravings, she attributes all her misery.
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