Her straight strawberry blonde hair was exactly Cathy’s. “It is part of the irony of life,” he said. 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. “I can survive on my own. It was not a hard face, but it was resolute. More than ever Sir John was glad that he had sat down. Lucy simply added her own good night, even though a significant part of her wanted to call Cathy mother, she refrained. While the carpenter irresolutely quitted the room, with a strong presentiment of ill upon his mind, a light quick step was heard descending the stairs, and before he could call out to prevent it, a man was admitted into the passage.
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