If she had any idea at all, it was something she dimly recalled from her books: something celestially beautiful, with a happy ending. "Prisoner at the bar," thus ran the sentence, "you shall be taken to the prison from whence you came, and put into a mean room, stopped from the light; and shall there be laid on the bare ground, without any litter, straw, or other covering, and without any garment. ‘Who is to be angry with you now?’ ‘Miss Prudence, that’s who,’ stated Joan bluntly.
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