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. In short, more preparations were made than if a state criminal was about to be executed. Perhaps it was just as well there was no inherited memory. He saw her eyes pass him and settle on a fleetingly pretty strawberry blond girl and her effeminate father. My mother died the day I was born; that’s what they tell me.
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