"I suppose I must have been senseless for some time; for, on coming to myself, I found this gash in my head, and the ground covered with blood. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. I do not ask if you are entirely English, but if you say truly when you say you are at my service. Afterward, one afternoon, he hovered about her, and came and sat beside her and talked of beauty and the riddle of beauty for some time. Her time and effort was justly rewarded, because the hard cold facts she knew about neighborhood intrigues were better than fictional soap operas. This laughter released something that had been striving for expression—her own natural buoyancy. On this side a flight of wooden steps, protected by a hand-rail, led to a door opening upon the summit of the prison.
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