What was he doing? What was he thinking? It was less than a day now, less than twenty hours. Ah, but she could remember; and many things there were that she would never forgive. She looked, Dorothée said, just as she always looks. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. His conscience never told him to go back and take his punishment; it tortured him only in regard to the deed itself.
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