One night Louis came, with the quiet ease of a chaplain into a jail, immune to the rules yet presenting no threat to them. Slowly, he sat down beside me and folded his legs, and looked off as though it was not polite to stare at me, the prisoner, wrapped in chains and rage. He laid his fingers on my shoulder. His hair had a reasonable and fashionable look to it—that is, it was clipped and combed and not full of dust. His clothes were clean and new, too, as if he had perhaps dressed for me. I smiled to myself at that, his dressing for me. But from time to time he did, and when I saw that the
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