“So Cheveney was her friend, you think, eh?” he remarked. Through all this flutter of novelty there came and went a solicitous, preoccupied, almost depressed figure. “I knew that you waited at the farmhouse. 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. Loneliness—something that was almost physical: as if the vitality had been taken out of the air she breathed.
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