\"Just fine, John. Pitt, pointing to the prisoner. She had arranged for a supper of tea, a boiled egg, and some tinned peaches. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. I have just come from him. Her thin fingers were armed with nails as long as the talons of a bird.
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