. A kind but hard looking female officer named Rose took her into a room and sat her down at a small wooden table. Her cheeks burned for a moment or two when she reached the street, although she held her head upright and walked blithely, even humming to herself fragments of an old French song. To dream and to labour: to you, my labour; to Ruth, my dreams. ‘Don’t, miss,’ uttered the boy. " "I do not doubt it," returned Jack; "none but those who have experienced it can understand the miseries of imprisonment.
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