This queer father of hers had given her everything but his arms. Stanley decided to treat that as irrelevant. 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. “To be an actress,” he said, “you require a special and peculiar temperament. She was writhing to get her hands loose and found herself gasping with passionate violence, “It’s damnable!—damnable!” to the manifest disgust of the fatherly policeman on her right. This lifeless appearance was heightened by the extreme sharpness of her features—especially the nose and chin,—and by the emaciation of her limbs, which was painfully distinct through her drapery. “Most of it is ugly and frowsy,” she declared, “but it isn’t worth talking about. Not a word passed between them.
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