‘My name’s NOT More, Mr. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Leaving the library by the same door she had first used to enter it earlier that day, she crossed the two little antechambers and moved on through the rooms. " This readiness to surrender the coat to her surprised Ruth.
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