He was confined in the Middle Stone Ward, a spacious apartment, with good light and air, situated over the gateway on the western side, and allotted to him, not for his own convenience, but for that of the keepers, who, if he had been placed in a gloomier or more incommodious dungeon, would have necessarily had to share it with him. “I suppose all life is an affair of chances. Her voice recalled him. "How do I know you are a friend?" asked Darrell. The world isn't real yet; she hasn't comparisons by which to govern her acts. The sound of her flying feet brought Gerald leaping for the door. He could not pull her soul apart now to satisfy that queer absorbing, delving thing which was his literary curiosity; he had put her outside that circle.
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