CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH THOUGHTS IN PRISON Part 1 The first night in prison she found it impossible to sleep. Mr. Lightheaded, she threw up in the courtyard of the Palazzo as servants crowded her in alarm. She tried for her usual confident tone, but only succeeded in sounding gruff, even to her own ears. "I am innocent, f have stolen nothing. What's this?" he added, stooping to pick up a piece of paper lying at his feet—it was Jonathan's memorandum. A nod was exchanged. Terror had laid a paralyzing hand upon her, fear kept her almost unconscious of the curious glances which she was continually attracting. It could only mean one thing—that her foster daughter was both a whore and a murderer! When Sheila confronted her about it, it was five in the morning. Though encumbered by his irons, his step was firm, and his demeanour dignified. The flowers and turf, a wild strawberry, a rare butterfly, and suchlike little intimate things had become more interesting than mountains. “How could he call except in your absence, as you are never at home in the afternoon. She felt terribly modern, even sporty as the magazines declared you should be.
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