‘Comment? This is not a mirror!’ It was a portrait. ” “Except,” said Constance, surveying her work with her head on one side, “to keep the matches from the litter. ” She smiled. 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.
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