At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. “Pretend,” he said, “that all I have said hasn’t been said. If only—Anna, tell me,” she broke off suddenly, “how did you get to know Mr. Sweet sixteen year old Shari, who never once figured out the morning sleep hangovers she suffered monthly.
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