“Have you dropped from the skies?” Sydney asked wonderingly. 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 why now? Don’t boys know that I am involved with John right now?” “That’s not the way it works, Lucy. You don’t know what you’re saying, and I hope you never will.
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