At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. " "Impossible!" cried Jonathan. She closed the book that she had been pretending to read and gathered her black umbrella and her backpack, a childish accoutrement she despised. Now, Sir. That's why I'm so anxious to get her to a haven. "You have said," pursued the widow, "that she, who has once erred, is irreclaimable.
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