She imagined herself on a barren 41 plain, post-Apocalypse, convulsing, waiting to die with the cockroach. She refused to accept her fate, but what is it that she could do about it? Night after night she invented alternatives. . The windows were grated, the doors barred; each room had the name as well as the appearance of a cell; and the very porter who stood at the gate, habited like a jailer, with his huge bunch of keys at his girdle, his forbidding countenance and surly demeanour seemed to be borrowed from Newgate.
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