“Until you marry, Vee,” said Hetty. "Your father—poor imbecile!—believes we ran away together. "She is. Put out your hand and bid me God-speed. 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. My father died a year ago, by the way.
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