The Chapel was situated in the south-east angle of the jail; the ordinary at the time of this history being the Reverend Thomas Purney; the deputy chaplain, Mr. “Just like old times,” she thought sardonically. A remittance man. “Annabel!” He looked at her thoughtfully. For a time they were very difficult. A shy virgin bride would not press her thigh sinuously against his, nor consent indeed to this clandestine little comedy he had been playing. It might as well be Melusine herself. Down there, whisky raises the very devil with white men. And yet—Wait a little, you’d better have every bit of it.
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