“Who?” She asked. The Press Room, to which Blueskin was conveyed on his arrival at the jail, was a small square chamber, walled and paved with stone. 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. These festivities, however, were not witnessed by the newly-married pair, who had departed immediately after the ceremony for Manchester.
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