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. He folded the garments carefully and replaced them on the chair. Vorsack would just have to live with it. We mustn’t make it so. ‘I thought it must be you,’ cried the woman. I have often felt before that it is only when one has nothing to say that one can write easy poetry.
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