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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. It was something that Sebastian had refused to do, a lifestyle that he placed himself above. When he returned from pissing, he sat down with her. He slid out of her. Conscientious objectors to that process are not permitted, she found, in Canongate. Not far from him was a knot of lads drinking, swearing, and playing at dice as eagerly and as skilfully as any of the older hands.
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