Perhaps it was loneliness. 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. “Hello, Vee!” he said. “You call yourself an artist— but you have no temperament. He is at present with Mr. “You will have to eat soon,” he said cryptically. ‘Until today.
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