Her mother had prepared her for everything. She drew a chair to the window and stared at the splendour of the tropical night. She had no idea what she should do. When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. “I suppose most people’s letters are queer. Wood. " "There are bad stories, then, just as there are bad people?" "Yes. .
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