The cell in which she was confined was about six feet long and four wide; the walls were scored all over with fantastic designs, snatches of poetry, short sentences and names,—the work of its former occupants, and of its present inmate. I've my own reasons for disliking this job. Suddenly the Wastrel took hold of the edge and flung the table aside. ‘Me, I have a name. I didn't expect you home before that hour, Sir.
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