It begins with that queer piccolo solo. 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. ‘I rather gathered as much,’ said Miss Froxfield, releasing her hands. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. But I have two hundred thousand pounds.
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