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It—it is nothing,’ she said, although with a tremor in her voice. 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. What'll we call him—Rollo?"—ironically. Straitened circumstances would not have mattered; a mother would have managed somehow. All the rest of his existence was subordinate to this pursuit; he lived for it, worked for it, kept himself in training for it.
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