The arrested women were herded in a passage of the Panton Street Police-station that opened upon a cell too unclean for occupation, and most of them spent the night standing. It was Martin, she could hear his heart beat. He carried a small bag. It was a moment of breathless interest to all engaged in the attempt. That world of fine printed cambrics and escorted maidens, of delicate secondary meanings and refined allusiveness, presented itself to her imagination with the brightness of a lost paradise, as indeed for many women it is a lost paradise. ‘You do not understand, Gérard.
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