She seemed smitten with a paroxysm of fear. 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. ‘Mad as hatters!’ ‘It is you who is mad,’ mademoiselle told him crossly. "Your servant, Sir Rowland," said the stranger, ducking his head, as he advanced. The eyes left him, searching beside the chair for her cane.
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