She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “So am I the jewel or the bug inside?” He smiled. She says that everyone in the house makes too much noise, my Dad snores, and that when the house is empty, the traffic noise is nearly deafening. She felt that for a time at any rate her depressing struggle against continual failure was at an end. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why.
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