It began as a joke. Finally she decided that even for an hotel she must look round, and that meanwhile she would “book” her luggage at Waterloo. 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. “But I am sorry,” she exclaimed. A phase of mental activity that men called courage: to summon at will this energy which barred the ingress of the long cold fingers of fear, which cleared the throat of stuffiness and kept the glance level and ever forward. .
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