"I'm at your mercy, Poll," rejoined Kneebone, abjectly. Gay, was a stout, good-looking, good-humoured man, about thirty-six, with a dark complexion, an oval face, fine black eyes, full of fire and sensibility, and twinkling with roguish humour—an expression fully borne out by the mouth, which had a very shrewd and sarcastic curl. She found pieces of it on the blacktop near the green dumpster, amazingly small pieces considering the fabric’s original heft. What was she going to do? One main idea possessed her: she must get away from home, she must assert herself at once or perish. “I forbid it!” she said firmly. This time she was indeed beaten. The bed was hard beyond any experience of hers, the bed-clothes coarse and insufficient, the cell at once cold and stuffy. .
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