“You’re not a man for me—not one of a sex, I mean. Then Gosse spoke again, answering the question in her mind. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. She felt this was the sensible way out of this oddly sinister situation. Used to play together, we did, all over Remenham House. "You are the son of Sir Montacute Trenchard, of Ashton-Hall, near Manchester. What she actually wanted was the present state of affairs to continue indefinitely.
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