The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. The very carts and vans and cabs that Wellington Street poured out incessantly upon the bridge seemed ripe and good in her eyes. They litter up the room. Stanley was throughout enigmatical, with an anxious eye on her husband and Alice. The mock astonishment of his face immediately became genuine. She looked at Lucy guiltily, wondering if she would be betrayed.
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