She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. It is quite light yet, and I want to have one more look at that angry red sun. We can’t afford to turn our women, our Madonnas, our Saint Catherines, our Mona Lisas, our goddesses and angels and fairy princesses, into a sort of man. " He had now gained the high road.
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