"You'll not be offended, I hope," returned Wood, drily, "if I say that your voice, your manner, and, above all, your very extraordinary way of laughing, put me strangely in mind of one of the 'droll dogs,' (as you term them,) who helped to perpetrate the outrage I've just described. He carried her in his arms up the steps, like a bride on her honeymoon. You should go home today and get some rest. In his muscular pudgy hand was a photograph, frayed at the corners, soiled from the contact of many hands: the portrait of a youth of eighteen. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “I am sorry,” he said slowly. ‘Jacques, where are you hurt?’ But as she asked the question, she saw the wound.
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