“MY DEAR FATHER,” she wrote,—“I have been thinking hard about everything since I was sent to this prison. You aren’t afraid of thunder, are you?” He asked. Too much, perhaps. 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. ’ Miss Froxfield intervened quickly as her betrothed showed signs of erupting again.
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