"She has, she has," said Jack, in a broken voice. She was to fall back amongst the ruck, a young woman of talent, content perhaps to earn a scanty living by painting Christmas cards, or teaching at a kindergarten. Fire; she was full of it. "I never told anybody," she went on. The sun was setting, casting long dreary shadows across deformed apple trees. Anna stared back at every one with undaunted composure. She had trouble outwitting him as he seemed to predict her words before he said them. 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.
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