She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. “And now,” said Ann Veronica surveying her apartment with an unprecedented sense of proprietorship, “what is the next step?” She spent the evening in writing—it was a little difficult—to her father and— which was easier—to the Widgetts. He noted that she was fully dressed, that her hair was carefully done, that there was a knotted ribbon around her throat.
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