He ushered them with an amiable flat hand into a minute apartment with a little gas-stove, a silk crimson-covered sofa, and a bright little table, gay with napery and hot-house flowers. Narrow little beady brown eyes, and she’s got big eyebrows like dead caterpillars. In the general survey of the prison, taken in the preceding chapter, but little was said of the Lodge. She had to do her thinking at home—under inspection.
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