Her steps slowed. She opened it and drew out a letter, and folded within it were the notes she had sent off to Ramage that day. She was not squeamish—although the sight of the sergeant’s ominous preparations had severely tried her fortitude—but Kimble’s white face plagued her conscience. ‘Eh bien, pig. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. She was not Madame Melusine Valade.
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