Winifred Wood was now in her twentieth year. The grate was full of fluttering ashes of burnt paper, and the easy chair near the fire had evidently been used. Jack's friends were allowed to visit him,; but as he had openly avowed his intention of attempting an escape, their proceedings were narrowly watched. It was the same smell that she had in his memory, but now it was definite, palpable, like a perfume.
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