“You’re not interested in politics?” he asked, almost with a note of protest. 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. “These are the playgrounds of life. Already she missed all of her fine things, her linens and leather bound books. When sentence was passed there wasn't a dry eye in the court. Listen to me, Winifred. Retreating as quickly as he could, Jack opened the first door he came to, entered a room, and searching in the dark for some place of concealment, fortunately discovered a skreen, behind which he crept. She laughed a little contemptuously.
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