I spent this afternoon in detention. ‘You are Mrs Ibstock, I think,’ she said eagerly. 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 boy would naturally attract the women, if the women were at all romantic. ‘I doubt it. I've opened the case of books.
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