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. She had first picked up the fiddle back when it was still called a viol, that was how long she had been at it. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. “I can get very angry. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution must comply with both paragraphs 1. But at the word “home” she turned again. "Stolen by a gipsy when scarcely five years old, Constance Trenchard, after various vicissitudes, was carried to London, where she lived in great poverty, with the dregs of society. If only to say goodbye. ‘Something for you, Lucy?’ he asked, interrupting a heated argument that had obviously been in progress for some little time before their arrival. I told you no good would come of it. Her husband sat in a chair beside her bed, his head in his hands. For a short time they allowed me to share the warmth of their lives. He was not, it seemed, the proper stipendiary at all, and there had been some demur to his jurisdiction that had ruffled him. She had been so young then.
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