“Where is my beautiful wife?” He bellowed from the downstairs. "Do they treat you ill?" asked her son. The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. She found herself again in the presence of some element in life about which she had been trained not to think, about which she was perhaps instinctively indisposed to think; something which jarred, in spite of all her mental resistance, with all her preconceptions of a clean and courageous girl walking out from Morningside Park as one walks out of a cell into a free and spacious world. I hate this part of the world.
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