I am come to serve you. You can’t do that sort of thing unless you do it over religion, and there’s no religion in me—of that sort—worth a rap. Her stomach growled, and she clutched at it in reaction, haphazardly observing that the gown had been changed to silk. 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. They clapped wildly afterward.
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