No doubt she was wondering what he had done in Charvill’s house and what he intended now. His blood would be sweet with it. At last, after a long rumbling journey in a stuffy windowless van, she reached Canongate Prison—for Holloway had its quota already. Her mind invoked her husband, who she imagined lying dead in a ditch somewhere, tortured and killed by brigands or perhaps eaten by creatures like herself, a fate he actually deserved. “I wonder how it is,” she exclaimed, “that my friends have so much more confidence in me than I have in myself. I'll keep a look out that nothing happens.
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