At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “I was half hoping that I might be allowed to see you home. It wouldn’t be you. He rose at once to his feet and turned a white face upon her. Thankfully, he seemed pleased the moment he saw her face, which her mother had made her wash for weeks with the pulp of apples, orange water, and 21 extract of borage among other things. She did not understand the note of hostility to men that ran through it all, the bitter vindictiveness that lit Miss Miniver’s cheeks and eyes, the sense of some at last insupportable wrong slowly accumulated. Here I am as an alternative either to nasty work—or going home. A slow anger burned in the man. Her father read a draft prospectus warily, and her aunt dropped fragments of her projects for managing while the cook had a holiday.
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