Whether it was the nun’s habit or the harlot’s clothing that distressed her more, he could not begin to guess. Once he chuckled aloud. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. John moved closer to her, getting up from his roost by one bench, he joined her at the bench where she sat. "Good-b'ye, Jack," said Figg, putting on his hat.
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