They walked across a moat of pea gravel that crunched like noisy cereal under their feet. “I believe,” he said stiffly, “that these are the apartments of Miss Pellissier. 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. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. Nothing else so quickly establishes the condition of comradeship as the sharing of a laughable incident.
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