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A Memory of Le Murate

I was released from Le Murate three days ago. In my section, there was an inmate from Prato – the nicest man, who had been “in” for the past fourteen months for some textile deal gone wrong. He knew all the ins of the prison rules and guards to perfection – and, at the beginning of my stay, from window to window, with a certain complacency about his own erudition, told me the whole history of Le Murate.

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