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. And here you are!” Her aunt opened all the fingers of her gloved hand in a rhetorical gesture. I suppose it is the mirrors and decorations. Why shouldn’t we be martyrs? There’s nothing else for most of us, anyhow.
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