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McClintock would bang his fist upon the table. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. ‘What would you do in Valade’s place?’ ‘You mean, knowing that the girl was here and liable to queer my pitch?’ ‘Precisely. But they did what they could for her. But now it’s beads by the cask—like the hold of a West African trader.
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