They came from every part, from the pit, the circle and the gallery, even from the stalls. Surely he was imagining this picture. In a convent, you understand, one is like a servant, even if one is a lady. He seemed happy with her, finding her proper and seemly. Look at these walls. Stanley lost patience. The stage manager reappeared presently, and made a speech. She’s right upstairs. The white haze of poison clouded her eyes. 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.
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