Its dreariness, like the filthiness of the police cell, was a discovery for her. ‘I thought as how it couldn’t do no harm, and as it turns out, it done me a bit of good. She spent the morning up to ten in writing a series of unsuccessful letters to Ramage, which she tore up unfinished; and finally she desisted and put on her jacket and went out into the lamp-lit obscurity and slimy streets.
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