She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “—and your aunt—” For a time he searched for the mot juste. Perhaps this was the real turning point: the hour in which the disordered mind began permanently to readjust itself. . Threw it out. He had drawn a horrid picture of the fate that awaited mademoiselle when once the populace discovered her relationship to the Valade family. But when she saw the car, her body filled with dread, for it gave her a bad feeling.
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