"Prisons have to be," said Edward.
"Have they?" said she. "I suppose they do, but such little things. To take a pair of boots because your feet are cold and you have no money, and to pay for what you've done—with that. Horrible! horrible!"
Neither of them spoke again till they were nearly at the hotel. Then he said, "What did you give them?"
"What do you mean?"
"I saw you knotting something in that little scented handkerchief of yours. What was it you gave them."
"Every penny I had. And I said, 'Good luck to you,' and I kissed my hand to them. There!" she said, defiantly.
"It was like you," he said, and took her arm. "But I wish I hadn't let you go inside the place. I didn't realize how it would be to you. I didn't realize what it would be to me."
"It was silly of me, I suppose," she said.
"I dare say. But you were lucky; I only managed to drop my tobacco-pouch among the post-office bags, but our guilt is equal. The sooner we get out of Caernarvon the better. By the way, don't let's catch the six-o'clock train to nowhere in particular. Let's take a carriage and drive to Llanberis and see the slate-quarries and go up Snowdon."
"Don't let's ever go into another prison," she said, blinking so that the tears should drop off her eyelashes and not run down her face, "it hurts so horribly, and we can't do any good."