At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. The ceiling had, in many places, given way; the laths had been removed; and, where any plaster remained, it was either mapped and blistered with damps, or festooned with dusty cobwebs. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. " CHAPTER XXV.
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