She sat there, a mark for boulevarders, the unconscious object of numberless wondering glances. 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. Diane did not hear the footsteps on her brick patio or the audible click of the back door lock being compromised. Unless he has dealings with the devil, he could never have done this alone.
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