At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. He destroyed her clumsily made dolls whenever he found them. ‘One of they Frenchies, that’s what I say—if it ain’t a ghost. She knew that the stairs they had to negotiate to the vestry were extremely narrow, and she had made her plans. “It was unpleasant while it lasted, but it is over —and my toasted scones are delicious. She had thought—What had she thought? That this dependence of women was but an illusion which needed only to be denied to vanish.
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