The prison gates were besieged like the entrance of a booth at a fair; and the Condemned Hold where he was confined, and to which visitors were admitted at the moderate rate of a guinea a-head, had quite the appearance of a showroom. As Gosse pushed her around it, she felt his hold about her of necessity loosen slightly. Anyhow, they didn’t run about so much. The day had become suddenly overcast. But we waste time. It got on my nerves—the women I saw. She would come back and write letters, carefully planned and written letters, or read some book she had fetched from Mudie’s—she had invested a half-guinea with Mudie’s—or sit over her fire and think. Nor can we.
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