CHAPTER XII. "Well, you women are forgiving creatures, I must say," observed Jonathan, sarcastically. The last thing that she remembered was her eyes crossing as she tried to focus upon the crunch of leaves as she lay heaving upon them, dampening them further with the outpouring of her sweat as it leaked from her clothing. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “I could not have stayed in Paris and waited for news. ‘Yes, like you,’ she snapped, with a venomous glance, her role evidently forgotten for the moment. At last, he got into a lane, but had not proceeded far when he was again alarmed by the sound of a horse's tread.
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