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She had seen her really only at teas, with the Stanley strain in her uppermost. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. And now she was witnessing or observing the complicated machinery of civilization through which they had come, at length to land on the beach of her island. It isn’t sentiment but it’s horse sense. A very familiar face emerged from a crowd at the impromptu bar on the kitchen island.
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