But as the students sat about Miss Garvice’s tea-pot and drank tea or smoked cigarettes, the talk got away from Capes. She had imagined that prisons were white-tiled places, reeking of lime-wash and immaculately sanitary. ‘There was a priest, the father confessor, you understand. Ice had begun to form in the shallows. Her safety lay in pretense—that what she saw was as a tale twice told. "I do not see him.
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