Then fury claimed her and she could no longer pretend. They proved all sorts of things perhaps, but they were thick, unequal, pitiful pieces of work. She had never been "My child" or "My dear"; always her name—Ruth. It is a cheering reflection, that in the present prison, with its clean, wellwhitewashed, and well-ventilated wards, its airy courts, its infirmary, its improved regulations, and its humane and intelligent officers, many of the miseries of the old jail are removed. “I’d chuck this lark right off if I were you, Vee,” he said. It had been brighter than the rest, for dawn light had come in through high unshuttered casements above the bookshelves. Lots of us are like that.
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