She was to be handed over with her dowry of three thousand Florins, plus her pet bird, six chickens, her mother’s fine linens, a small book of poetry. Her eardrums were burning with the echoes of those hideous shouts. I don’t care what else there is in the world. 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. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. I keep my finger on the pulse of things. The key's in the lock, on the inner side.
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