“Did you ever see women so weary-looking and so dowdy? They do not talk. Run along now; but return in half an hour. Lucy was filled with happiness, it was her third Christmas at the Becks. 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 is very doubtful,” he said. There’s hardly a night she doesn’t sneak out of the house. But I'm sure it's important.
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