When Jack entered the cell, she was talking to herself in the muttering unconnected way peculiar to her distracted condition; but, after her eye had rested on him some time, the fixed expression of her features relaxed, and a smile crossed them. She tolerated spitballs in her curly hair and had to buy a new backpack when hers was stolen. They slow danced to a Bon Jovi ballad. My name is Ferringhall—Sir John Ferringhall.
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