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Littered on the grass, we seemed dingy, urban riff-raff.

We defiled the scene, like sardine-tins and paper bags on the seashore.

It was the invariable spike meal, always the same, whether breakfast, dinner or supper–half a pound of bread, a bit of margarine, and a pint of so-called tea.

It took us five minutes to gulp down the cheap, noxious food.

We stuffed our ankles with contraband until anyone seeing us might have imagined an outbreak of elephantiasis.

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The doors were locked on the outside a little before seven in the evening, and would stay locked for the next twelve hours.The woman was sent off to the workhouse, and we others into the spike.It was a gloomy, chilly, limewashed place, consisting only of a bathroom and dining-room and about a hundred narrow stone cells.Each of us had three minutes in which to bathe himself.Six greasy, slippery roller towels had to serve for the lot of us.

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