But it sounds too real to be imagined. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “Suppose I chuck it,” she remarked, standing with the mauve slip in her hand —“suppose I chuck it, and surrender and go home! Perhaps, after all, Roddy was right! “Father keeps opening the door and shutting it, but a time will come— “I could still go home!” She held Ramage’s check as if to tear it across. You’re going to live under the cat’s foot. But if I escape, my gratitude—" "Pshaw!" interrupted Jonathan, scornfully.
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