For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. 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. "Think of me forgetting ten thousand so quickly!" "Go to, you old fraud! You'll never fool me again.
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