She took up one of her father’s novels and put it down again, fretted up to her own room for some work, sat on her bed and meditated upon the room that she was now really abandoning forever, and returned at length with a stocking to darn. She should be lifted out of her narrow little life, and it should be all owing to him. “Then assuredly!” said Manning. Having now fairly got out of Newgate for the second time, with a heart throbbing with exultation, he hastened to make good his escape. I wasn’t. . Moving back to the corner again, she ran a hand back over the leather-bound books—which, she realised, were not books at all. ‘How could I know that it is you?’ She peered at him in the darkness. Not fit to be dust on your boots.
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