She had carried a chair into the room veranda and had watched and listened until the night silences had lengthened and only occasionally she heard a voice or the rattle of rickshaw wheels in the courtyard. Michelle looked her up and down, liking the results of her efforts. Particles of bullet were embedded in Rhea’s large arm as she swung across the stones in her donated legs. Then the bridge had arched gateways, bristling with spikes, and garnished (as all ancient gateways ought to be) with the heads of traitors.
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