"He can't get out. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. Marvel, who had been a little discomposed by the treatment he had experienced on Holborn Hill, very composedly filled and lighted his pipe. I would not have him know—now—for the world. "Here, Tom," he added, calling to a shop-boy, "run and fetch a constable. It was there in the breast pocket, stiff and legal looking.
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