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At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “I wish he had,” she said. “Sit down,” he said, and perused—“perused” is the word for it—for some moments. As they careened into a parking space, Lucy clung to the upholstery so as not to be thrown against the front seats. ” “For example?” “Your dyed hair. CHAPTER XXVIII.
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