"The gentleman is a stranger to me, Poll," replied the woollen-draper, with increased embarrassment. “Let go!” she gasped at him, a blaze of anger. He could talk to her as frankly as he could to a man, that she would not take offence at anything so long as it was in the form of explanation. Sebastian slowed the car after they had traveled seventy miles into the countryside. 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. "Is it indeed you, or am I dreaming?" "You're not dreaming, mother," he answered. She practiced swaddling on a doll, pretending to pat the head of her imaginary infant boy.
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