So he sharpened a score of pencils, and after fiddling about and rewriting the last page he had written the previous night, he plunged into work. . . What was his problem, she thought to herself. He had tossed an honoured name into the mire; he required no prison bars to accentuate this misery. ‘They’ve gone, miss,’ came the answer, muffled through the panel door. In the northwest angle, there was a small pen for female offenders, and, on the south, a more commodious enclosure appropriated to the master-debtors and strangers. Was this the result of some strange experiment? It was the person of Annabel Pellissier—the soul of a very different order of being. “How old are you?” “Sixteen.
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