She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. ‘Monsieur, my wife intended not to anger you,’ he said in a tone of apology. And if this soi-disant Valade had already gone to Monsieur Charvill— ‘Very well,’ she said to Jack without turning round, ‘but now is Wednesday. Rummage, my boy, do.
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