” “You what?” she repeated incredulously. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. He had now reached what was called the Lower Leads,—a flat, covering a part of the prison contiguous to the gateway, and surrounded on all sides by walls about fourteen feet high. She had better escape if she can. Bête, she told herself fiercely. With trembling fingers she opened the post-bag. There is no Heaven for your mother.
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