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In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. Those I don’t mind, though, the games. Here was no crooked soul; a little weak perhaps, impulsive beyond common, but fundamentally honest. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. She looked upon it with pity as she drank his diabetic blood and saw that several of his fingers were missing. ‘At last,’ he cried, ‘I have found you!’ He would listen to nothing. Hastening to the spot where he had tied his horse to a tree, he vaulted into the saddle, and rode off across the fields,—for he was fearful of encountering the hostile party,—till he reached the Edgeware Road. As she hoisted her skirts near her waist, she thought ruefully of the last time she had worn such an elaborate gown, sometime near 1910 when petticoats were still considered hip everyday garb.
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