‘That’s what started the fracas,’ Gerald admitted ruefully, nursing his injured hand as he recalled it. And, besides, she didn’t just immediately want to make her attempt. 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. The old aspect of the place was gone. In Wych Street Owen Wood did dwell; A carpenter he was by trade, And money, I believe, he made.
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