CHAPTER VIII. Oh! my dear, dear son, be warned in time. Of course, I don't believe she's what you would call flush. It was his redemption, his ticket out of hell—that blue-serge coat. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. She was perhaps as near tears as ever before in her life. “And some of them quite pretty and well dressed.
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