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Stanley took mustard savagely. 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. Wood was so much exhausted that he was obliged to retire to his own room, where he continued for some hours overpowered by grief. It’s just hard to keep things from her. "I feel like work," he lied. On the way he confessed. Luckily I’m not.
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