There's a letter for the head turnkey, Mr. “Ugh!” she said. He removed his cockaded hat, putting it down between them as he sat at the other end, placing himself at an angle and, crossing his legs, leaned back at his ease, his eyes fixed on her face. She feasted reluctantly, partly out of wonder at the new function of her often elongated canines. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon.
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