She drank and drank until his body was a lifeless husk, as light as a mannequin, virtually hollow of all but the fluid in his bones. Drink for him had a queer phase. He was a wonderful little creature with a perfect tiny face, mottled pink cheeks, and eyes brighter than May. Lucy sat paralyzed, as still as Tiger Lily on the death raft. “Are you cold?” He asked her, cocking his head to one side like a puppy, so close that the heat of his words warmed her cheek. Some years after the date of this history, an immense ventilator was placed at the top of the Gate, with the view of purifying the prison, which, owing to its insufficient space and constantly-crowded state, was never free from that dreadful and contagious disorder, now happily unknown, the jail-fever.
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