The Ragged Edge. "Ah!" exclaimed Lady Trafford, exerting all her strength. She was already a little prepared by her discursive reading and discussion under the Widgett influence for ideas and “movements,” though temperamentally perhaps she was rather disposed to resist and criticise than embrace them. 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. He kissed her once on the lips with a passion of which, during all their days of married life, he had given no sign. A crumpled-up newspaper thrown from the gallery hit her upon the cheek. “I think,” she said, “that I will tell you everything. It made her laugh, which in turn made him laugh. I’m minded to take a whip and beat some sense into you.
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