Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. Dorling said. Instead, you are willing to go to a place like that where you ought not to be allowed to think of showing yourself. Then a handkerchief was thrown over the cage, to prevent the bird from singing; it was her favourite canary. “Look round the table,” she said. Ruth did not reply, but stared past the doctor, her eyes misty. ‘Well?’ demanded Miss Froxfield, accepting a glass of lemonade proffered by a passing lackey.
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