The slim knife was wrested from her grasp, and she was flung backwards, towards the bookcases. ‘She’s an eviltempered little termagant, yes, but there’s no malice aforethought. 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. It did not occur to her that save for some accidents of education and character they had souls like her own. His shoulders were bent, his face was furrowed with wrinkles. An acute sense of living was in her veins, even the taste of her wine seemed magical. There was one verse that haunted and mocked her.
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