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keen to shut down protests before they could spread like stains on a cloth. The nightmare of the ruling elite – and the dream of dissidents – was that the stains would join up until the cloth was entirely a new colour.
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She observed a shabbily dressed woman moving her pencil down the list, giving a little grunt of fulfilment each time she identified a Communist, and running her pencil through the name with a smile of pleasure. Tania suspected the government might have been unwise to choose a system of marking the paper in which rejection could feel so physically satisfying.