For ten years I've been trying to go home, but my conscience will not permit me, I hate the Orient. “What is the good of pretending?” she said. This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. ‘Scream and you are dead,’ he snapped, and released her mouth so that he might open the door. Analysis would come later, when the primitive conscience, satisfied, would cease to dominate his thought and action. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already.
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