Here was not the individual against whom she had been warned. Only how had they missed him? Were they imbecile? Or perhaps the mists had concealed him from them. ‘What, miss?’ asked Jack Kimble from behind her. "Quilt!—Mendez!—Where are you?" vociferated Wild, sounding his whistle for the third time. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary.
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