At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. I sang to him, and he was satisfied. ‘Laisse-moi. I am guilty practically of the impertinence of coming to ask you whether I misunderstood your sister. She followed him about persistently, and succeeded, after a brisk, unchivalrous struggle (in which he pinched and asked her to “cheese it”), in kissing him among the raspberries behind the greenhouse. “Please forgive me—for one moment,” she sobbed. It is absolutely a frightful neighbourhood, this. “I wonder,” he said, and went off at a tangent.
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