“How will you live?” she appealed. He had pictured her, if indeed she had ever had the courage to do this thing, as sitting alone, convulsed with guilty fear, starting at her own shadow, a slave to constant terror. She was sorry for his liking her too much for his own good, but her need was too desperate to cavil at turning it to useful account. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. One might have said that these trees grieved for their native soil; and, grieving, refused to bear.
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