“I wonder what he takes me for?” When presently she got down from the stile a certain note of internal conflict, a touch of doubt, had gone from her warm-tinted face. His expression altered. “Very well,” said her father. “It is not that. And when I ask you why it is you do so, you have no answer. But if he speaks—I fear what he may tell. ” It was her last evening in that wrappered life against which she had rebelled. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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