Her eyes were cast down, this being the position most significant of her
spirit. Her pace was equal, firm, and rapid: she made herself oblivious
of the bustle of the streets, and she repented that her vanity had
permitted her to wear white and lavender these making a combination in
her dress which she had been told became her well. She had no right to
embellish herself. Was she going to the races or a match, or a
kettle-drum, that she must dandify herself with particular shades of
color? She stopped short, blushing. Would Miss Cro----. But there was no
help for it now. It was too late to turn back. She proceeded, feeling
that the odds were against her.
She approached her destination in such a way that the prison came into
view suddenly. She paused, with a feeling of terror. The enormous gray
building rose far above a lofty white wall of stone, and a sense of its
prodigious strength and awful gloom overwhelmed her. On the top of the
wall, holding by an iron railing, there stood a man with a rifle
trailing behind him. He was looking down into the yard inside. His
attitude of watchfulness, his weapon, the unseen thing that was being
thus fiercely guarded, provoked in her such a revulsion that she came to
a standstill.
What in the name of mercy had she come here for? She began to tremble.
The man with the flowers came up to her and halted.
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