“Odd thing,” Meddoes remarked, “we were just talking about the Pellissier girl. Sheppard, that I fear any further anxiety might prove fatal to him. 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. She hated tricking Shari, whose joy for life was the only thing that made her naive enough to fall for laced iced tea or hot cocoa, depending on the season. “What made you marry him? What made you leave Paris without a word to any one? What made you and your sister exchange identities?” “There is one answer to all those questions, Nigel,” she said, with a nervous little shudder. As soon as he was gone, the two women divested themselves of their hoods and cloaks, and threw them, as if inadvertently, into the farthest part of the angle in the wall. It fell with a clatter to the floor. “The point is we’re not toys, toys isn’t the word; we’re litter. She sat perfectly still, however.
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