“My sister and I,” she said slowly, “have seen very little of each other lately. “Don’t be an ass, Ferringhall,” he said tersely. 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. Her cheeks were aflame.
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