This farewell had been particularly distasteful to him. The path he had selected conducted him to his mother's humble dwelling. It's a sorry world," he went on. She stumbled through a thorny copse, her slippers sliding on patches of sand that gave way to rock. Her fanciful imagination no longer drew pictures of the aunt in the doorway of a wooden house, her arms extended in welcome. “I am not dependent upon any one. She was dressed as a white woman should be; and that for the present satisfied her instincts. 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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