The coach in which the prisoner had been conveyed was already broken to pieces, and the driver was glad to escape with life. That is what my mother used to call me. The lady whose husband had been Mayor of Hartlepool looked at Anna and sniffed. Put him in the stocks, and there let him sleep off his drunken fit. “Nor am I going to,” she answered, smiling. A sound sleeper, she was not roused by the creaky openings and closings of drawers as Lucy packed a single duffle bag with underwear and soap that was pilfered from a multipack of Zest in the Beck’s downstairs bathroom.
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