She was the High Priestess. The first set of occupations seemed to her to be altogether too domestic and restricted; for the latter she was dreadfully handicapped by her want of experience. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. Prison was bleak without spaciousness, and pervaded by a faint, oppressive smell; and she had to wait two hours in the sullenly defiant company of two unclean women thieves before a cell could be assigned to her. She pulled down her veil and made her way to the door. “The Annabel who lives here, who sings every night at the ‘Unusual’? They call her by your old name.
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