At six o'clock, the wicket was shut; and at nine, the jail was altogether locked up. But at least it gave her more time. If she spoke to a policeman she did not know what would ensue. Beyond the hatch, an angle, formed by a projection in the wall of some three or four feet, served to hide a door conducting to the interior of the prison. And when she went to sleep, then always Capes became the novel and wonderful guest of her dreams. That is so awful. “I don’t know whether I shall go on,” said Gwen, a novel note of languorous professionalism creeping into her voice.
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