“Because I hate you!” She spat. Maggot. Then the storm broke. His wife's portrait had been removed from the walls, and the place it had occupied was only to be known by the cord by which it had been suspended. 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.
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