Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. “What do you mean?” she asked. "Leave the room," interposed Kneebone, angrily. Her sadness was manageable only because she was so familiar with its phases, because she could observe its moods remotely, like an astronomer studying the moon. It’s just that I want to say. Men of action by the scarlet coats with their grey facings—insignia of the county militia.
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