As Jack conjectured, no one was there, and, though a lamp was burning on a stand, they decided upon proceeding without it. “Don’t you understand? It is I whom you cared for in Paris, not Anna. 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. It’s odd, but nothing but cliche seems to meet this case.
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