” “It was Cheveney!” he said slowly. It was the gallows. ‘Ain’t no call for you to go a-blaming of yourself. Ireton will do no such thing," replied the head-turnkey. The drawers at the moment were too busy to attend to her, and she would have seized the opportunity of examining, unperceived, the assemblage within, through a little curtained window that overlooked the adjoining chamber, if an impediment had not existed in the shape of Baptist Kettleby, whose portly person entirely obscured the view. She looked at the white ankle socks on her feet and was reminded simultaneously of her pajama outfit and the suitcase that still lay underneath the bed. ‘Either you tell me why you want the wretched animal, or it stays here. ’ A panel slid open and she stepped into the relative light of the little dressingroom, Kimble close behind her.
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