"'Odd's-my-life!—what's that?" he cried, greatly alarmed. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “No Christmas dinner,” she said, “or anything nice! One doesn’t even know what you are doing. Kneebone helped to the pigeon-pie; while Thames unwired and uncorked a bottle of stout Carnarvonshire ale. One who—who—tres. She got home every night in time to cook supper and it was good money.
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