“It’s a period of crude views and crude work,” said Mr. “Is your husband here to-night?” he asked. Lucy's ears were singing. “What are you doing?” He cried. He entered the room with his usual deliberation, and looked covertly about him. 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.
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