Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. “To Hell if we don’t change our ways. He raised her to a sitting position. “And now,” she said, splintering the surviving piece of coal into indignant flame-spurting fragments with one dexterous blow, “what am I to do? “I’m in a hole!—mess is a better word, expresses it better.
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