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. ‘No, my poor guardian,’ Gerald mocked. Her patience was waning fast. She had never felt so acutely the desire for free initiative, for a life unhampered by others. “And so you have been thinking?” her father began, quoting her letter and looking over his slanting glasses at her. He took a handful of almonds and raisins that she held out to him—for both these young people had given up the practice of going out for luncheon—and kept her hand for a moment to kiss her finger-tips.
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