They were in many respects so right; she clung to that, and shirked more and more the paradoxical conviction that they were also somehow, and even in direct relation to that rightness, absurd. Prison was beastly. "Wet your whistle before you start, Jack," said Kneebone, pouring out a glass of ale. Everything was very neat; it had evidently been straightened up and kept for her. You cannot arrest yourself. I did not lay any traps for her. I'm speaking of virtuous women—of WIVES, Madam.
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