She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. "He's dead," exclaimed Austin. It was a great relief to arrive at last at that pause when she could say to her aunt, “Now, dear?” and rise and hold back the curtain through the archway. Sheila’s own waif of a husband had objected to her airing the truth, he had even gotten the nerve to bring up the word divorce.
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