Her concluding paragraph was, on the whole, perhaps, hardly starchy enough. He had heard everything. "Never throw away a chance," thought Jonathan. The air was sweet with the perfume of flowers, and the melody of murmuring insects, the blue sky was cloudless, the heat of the sun was tempered by the heather-scented west wind. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already.
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